


careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Vines | The Crimson | The Egg, Dreamons, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Dynamics, Gen, Ghost Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Good Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Good Wilbur Soot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Reunions, Wilbur Soot Redemption, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), come get some juice, due to the fact that wilbur is Not Happy to be back, for a given value of 'good', glatt is here and he's gonna make that everyone else's problem, he's messed up in the past but he's also trying, he's trying, if anyone's looking for a resurrected!wilbur that isn't vilbur, implied suicidal ideation, it'll get better though, not the content creators, post-season 2 finale, to make things clear: despite the rpf tags i intend this as fanfic of the smp rp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29068617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter ofif, butwhen.(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 169
Kudos: 548





	1. soldier, keep on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things before we start:
> 
> I'm currently taking a bit of a breather from my primary fandom, which... apparently means that I'm writing Minecraft fanfiction? Which I'm a bit confused by, considering that I don't actually play Minecraft? But these block men are strangely compelling, so here I am, I guess.
> 
> Here's the standard disclaimer that I am writing about the rp characters as they are portrayed on the smp, and I do not in any way intend for these characters to be reflections of the actual content creators. Also, all relationships in this fic are strictly platonic.
> 
> And here's another disclaimer just to say that I'm very new to this fandom. As in, I... know the broad strokes of the plot up to this point? But there's so much content that I haven't watched yet, so please forgive any errors I make with the lore. I'll also be using a good bit of headcanon and popular fanon, so basically just take the canon divergence tag for what it's worth and go from there (and generally, anything from after Jan. 20th won't be canon for this fic unless it's stated otherwise).
> 
> And with all that said, here we go. Content warnings for this chapter include swearing and sort-of suicidal ideation (just in that Wilbur is currently very much not happy to be back).
> 
> Fic title and chapter titles are from 'Soldier' by Fleurie.

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

It is an ugly thing, reviving like this. His body does not remember what it is to live. The sensations are overwhelming: the ground beneath him, cold and wet, the freezing air against his skin, the force of gravity that keeps him pinned down. It takes a moment for him to recall how to breathe, to even recall that he needs to do so at all, after that first instinctive inhalation. His lungs are burning, and fear washes over him, builds within him—but the memory comes. His lungs inflate. Deflate. Too quickly, at first, too shallowly, but he falls into a rhythm soon enough.

Breathing. He is breathing. He is alive. His fingers curl into the grass, the slick dirt, and he shudders at the feeling. He thinks he might shake apart right here, right now, shake apart and back to death again.

He doesn’t want to be here.

His mind is fuzzy, whirling, confused, and his thoughts are so much scattered snow, but this much he knows. He does not want to be alive, does not want to be here, does not want _this_ —

But since when has he had a choice in the matter?

Sitting up is slow. Strange. It takes more effort than it should, and it sets his head to spinning as he blinks the water from his eyes. His vision clears enough to see where he is: a forest, not too dense, the trees sparsely placed. He is sitting beneath one, and as if to reward the realization, the leaves jerk in a sudden wind, dumping several large drops of water on his head. He frowns up at them, and at the grey sky beyond. And then has to look down again—there is more rain in his eyes, and the sting of it is unpleasant, too sharp. Every sensation feels like too much, too present and too raw and too close.

He should stand, he thinks. But he stares at his legs, and wonders if they will hold his weight. They don’t look as if they will. They are shaking. His whole body is shaking, shaking apart and back to—

( _you could only be so lucky_ )

He stands. He lurches to the side, at first, has to grip the tree for balance as his legs adjust to holding him up. His head pounds, spins, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of vertigo.

And then opens them.

The laughter comes unbidden, welling up from somewhere dark, somewhere despairing. It echoes in his ears until it’s all that he can hear, all that he knows, curling around him, manic and wild. It is a villain’s laugh. A villain’s laugh for a villain, a villain with blood caking his hands and madness pressing on the edges of his mind

(is it progress, that he can recognize it now?)

(but is it madness? or is it just him? what is real, the brother that he used to be, or the shattered, destructive thing that he became? can he blame his actions on madness when he enjoyed every moment?)

and now a heart pumping in his chest, alive, alive, alive. Alive, when he never wanted it, when he explicitly _told_ Tommy _not_ to—

Not to what? To bring him back? Tommy wanted him, but Dream is the one with the power, or so Tommy said. Dream, alive just like him, when he has no right to be. A villain just like him, but not, but worse

( _who do you think you’re fooling? how much of Tommy’s pain can be laid at your feet?_ )

for all that he’s done. To Tommy, to everyone on the server, even to those who once counted him as a friend.

(He was one, wasn’t he? In the early days, in the peaceful days, before the war? They were all friends, then, when Dream invited them to his world, invited them to make a home and to stay, and he really thought that he could settle here, with his little brother and with everyone else. He was friends with Dream, then.)

(The war was a game, in the beginning. He can’t pinpoint the moment when that changed.)

And perhaps Tommy forced the issue, forced the resurrection. But Dream still made the choice to do it. In the end, he is back at Dream’s behest and at no one else’s, and anger stirs in him, that he is in any way beholden to that bastard, to the asshole who caused so much pain, so much suffering, who tormented and abused his little brother

( _but you did the same, don’t forget_ )

to the point of—

He is not Ghostbur. Not in any way that matters, just like Ghostbur wasn’t truly him. But he remembers what Ghostbur knew, more or less, and more than that, he understands in a way that Ghostbur was never capable of. In a way, part of him envies Ghostbur his naivety. Most of him doesn’t, though, isn’t capable of anything more than a vague disgust at best. Naivety helps no one, does nothing. The naive either learn better, or they die. That’s the way the world works, has always been the way that the world works.

The point is, he has perspective that Ghostbur didn’t. He knows what Dream did. What he’ll do again, if given the chance, and he will have that chance. Tommy’s decision to spare him has guaranteed as much. Even the most inescapable prison cannot hold someone like Dream forever.

He forms a fist. Punches the tree. It smarts, and finally, here is a sensation that does not overwhelm him, that is almost comforting in its familiarity, that clears his head and allows him to focus. There is solid ground beneath his feet and water dripping from his soaked hair onto his face. He is in a forest that he doesn’t recognize. His heart beats in his chest.

Alive, alive, alive.

“What the fuck have you done?” he murmurs, and his voice is a broken, frayed thing. Unsurprisingly, he receives no answer, and his mind is left to invent them, each more terrible than the last.

This much is clear, though, he needs to

(find his family)

(see Dream dead)

(blow them all to hell and back because why not, what more is there to lose)

(run run run as far and as fast as possible)

get to Tommy? Get to Tommy. Yes. That’s the first step. Get to Tommy, shake the life out of him until he owns up to whatever the hell he was thinking with this. Learn more about how he defeated Dream in the first place, because surely that will be relevant information, because surely the second step will be to kill Dream. He’s too dangerous to be kept alive, and he’s outlived his use anyway.

If Tommy truly spared him just so that he would… _resurrect_ Wilbur, well. He’s served his purpose. There’s no reason to keep him breathing.

Even if—

Well.

He’ll think about it when the time comes.

(he doesn’t want to be here, please, let him rest, let him be free)

For now, he is here, and he has a goal, has a plan. So he takes his first step forward, and finds walking easier than he expected. His muscles seem to remember how to do it, now, and his strides grow longer and longer until he is a hair’s breadth away from running, sprinting through the trees, and his legs begin to burn, and it is a good burn, a burn that comes from simple exertion, from the revolutionary act of living, and the rain pours down and giddiness fills him, if just for a moment. If just for a moment, he thinks that perhaps this might not be such a bad thing after all.

If just for a moment.

He breaks through the tree line. And stops.

He knows where he is.

He hadn’t realized before, how cold it was. Or rather, he realized it distantly, in the manner of things that don’t quite effect him, that he acknowledges but doesn’t have to think on. But it does effect him, and as his adrenaline wears off, chills run across his body, his skin erupting in gooseflesh. He’s not dressed for this climate, is wearing the same clothes he died in, the white shirt and the trenchcoat that does little in the way of providing warmth.

But he knows where he is.

Or rather, Ghostbur did, so now he does. There is snow in the distance, about a twenty minute walk, perhaps. The border of the tundra. From there, it isn’t far to Techno’s base. Another half hour on foot, if the weather isn’t too bad.

Techno.

He hadn’t even thought to go see him. Hadn’t spared a thought for his other brother, or for his father, who he knows is staying with him. But they are so close, right there, and his objective is to get to Tommy, but

(he wants to see them, wants them so bad, wants his brother’s protective glare and his father’s warm embrace)

he doesn’t know where Tommy is, does he? He has a general idea, but no more than that, and even besides, he doesn’t know anything about the current politics of the server, other than the fact that Dream is locked away. Who does that leave in charge, if anyone? Who is on whose side? What sides are left at all?

He needs more information. Techno isn’t likely to be in the loop, all things considered, but even a little bit of intelligence would be better than no intelligence at all. And he’s closer. A warm house sounds very nice right now.

He considers his objectives, and makes a mental readjustment. Tommy can be second, Dream third. That’s fine. Techno first.

If, that is, Techno allows him in. If he doesn’t slam the door on his face. If he doesn’t kill him again. He liked Ghostbur, Wilbur thinks, but Ghostbur was Ghostbur, and he is himself, and he doesn’t know where they stood with each other, by the end. Doesn’t know whether Techno will be glad to see him at all. That shouldn’t matter to him, though. It shouldn’t matter at all what Techno thinks of him,

(even if something in him balks at the idea that Techno might hate him, that Techno, his brother who he has protected and pestered in equal measure, who has done the same for him since the day Phil took his hand and brought him home and said to the piglin hybrid waiting at the door, _Techno, this is your new brother Wilbur, please don’t kill each other_ )

since he has his goals, and those are what’s important. So really, if Techno turns him away, he’s no worse off, if a little colder and wetter. He goes back to the original plan of getting to Tommy, killing Dream. In that order.

Right. Right.

This will work.

It will be several hours of walking through the cold. Best to start now. So he does, walking at a steady pace, aiming for the snow, and—

_Something blue._

Something blue flashes in the corner of his eye, and he freezes, wheels around, his heart pounding in his ears. His eyes dart around, but there is nothing there, nothing that he can see. No movement in the trees behind him. No movement in the grass around him. No movement in the snowy climate ahead. No movement, but then, that doesn’t mean that nothing is there, that he didn’t see anything at all,

( _because it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you_ )

and he’s certain that he did. That he saw blue.

Blue has strange connotations for him, now. He’s not Ghostbur. But Ghostbur’s memories linger.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, and is proud of the way his voice holds steady. There is no reply, and still no movement. “You can come out, if you want to talk. I’m unarmed,” he adds, and immediately regrets it. If there is someone there, there is a good likelihood that they mean him harm. He didn’t exactly… _leav_ e on a good note, and advertising his lack of a weapon to someone who might very well want to kill him is not a good idea.

But nothing happens either way. No one steps out from behind a tree to talk. No one jumps out and tries to stab him. He waits for a few minutes before admitting defeat and turning back to his path.

Perhaps he imagined it. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him.

(but he didn’t, he knows he didn’t, and he’s pretty sure that there’s something he’s forgetting)

He’ll be alert. Careful. Watchful. It’s all he can do at this point.

So, with a heart beating in his chest and lungs that breathe and feet that touch the ground, Wilbur goes off to find his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to begin with, but my chapters tend to get longer as I get more secure in my characterization. This is the first time in a while that I've started posting a fic without having any other chapters already written, so I honestly have no idea what the update schedule will be like? But I hope to get chapters out as soon as I finish them. I'm armed with a very vague plot outline and determination, so we'll see where that gets me! I'll be updating the tags as new ones become relevant, too.
> 
> Also, I think I'm gonna try to reply to comments, which is something that I don't always do because I'm big anxious literally all of the time. But if I don't get to yours, or if it takes me a little while, please know that I still read it and squealed over it, because comments are my motivation to keep going and I treasure each and every one I get!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Two: In which Wilbur makes it to Technoblade, and a conversation is had.


	2. shiver to that broken beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a hundred kudos on chapter one?? Y'all are so amazing, thank you so much!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include swearing, references to scars, and slightly suicidal ideation (again, due to Wilbur's not-so-great mental state atm).

He underestimated how cold he would get. By the time he finally finds Techno’s cabin, Ghostbur’s memories guiding him over the hills, he’s fairly certain that his fingers and toes are halfway to frostbite, and he’s shivering uncontrollably. If Techno ends up wanting to kill him, he won’t have to do much. Not letting him inside would be enough.

He isn’t sure if he’d respawn. Isn’t sure if he’s got another three lives, or if it’s just the one. Whether it’s three lives to live, three lives to lose, three lives to waste, three lives that he shouldn’t have in the first place, three lives to spare. Two lives to throw away, if need be. Or if it’s just the one.

(the one that he never wanted at all)

(an image flashes: Tommy staring into lava. Ghostbur found him like that, once, and thinking about it now makes his heart stutter in his chest)

He mounts the steps to Techno’s cabin, sparing a glace for—are those polar bears? Does Techno have polar bears tied up outside? He shakes his head, because _yes, of course he does, it’s Techno_ , and then he is standing in front of the door, and he’s suddenly feeling a lot more trepidation about this whole thing. It’s irrational, really, but he can’t shake it, can’t shake the fear that this is going to go terribly, and this whole journey was a mistake.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his breath puffing in front of his face. “Fuck everything.” The swearing doesn’t make him feel much better, but watching his breath fog up does remind him that he is very cold, and that he needs to be inside now. Even if this ends in him respawning, it’ll be somewhere warmer than this, hopefully.

He knocks. Four times, loudly. There is no response, so he does it again. There is still no answer, and he can’t resist the dark glare that he casts at the door. If he’s come all this way only for Techno to not be home, he’s going to be very put out. He’s also definitely not above breaking into his house, if need be.

He knocks one last time for good measure, already mapping his way in. There’s a window he can break—

“Hold your damn horses, I’m coming!”

It’s unmistakably Techno’s voice, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tenses up, ready to fight, ready to flee, ready to do whatever the moment asks of him. For a brief, hysterical moment, he entertains the idea of abandoning this whole thing, of ducking out of sight and letting Techno think that it was someone playing a prank. This is the last moment to back out.

He doesn’t, in spite of his better judgment,

(or perhaps because of it, he doesn’t know, doesn’t even know if he has ‘better’ judgment at all, these days)

and he jams his hands in his pockets and tries for all the world to adopt a casual pose before the door is swinging open, and Techno is there.

(his brother is there)

“Alright, who—” Techno starts, and stops just as quickly, staring at him with wide eyes.

Techno looks… good. He looks good. Dressed in warm layers, that damn red cape he’s so fond of flowing out behind him, his stupid crown on his head. His hair is braided neatly, his tusks sharpened to gleaming points, and if, perhaps, the bags under his eyes are a bit darker than they should be, Wilbur won’t point it out. What’s a little lost sleep, in the grand scheme of things? Technoblade seems like he’s thriving up here, the Antarctic Empire all over again, and Wilbur feels a sharp flare of

(jealousy)

(relief)

emotion. He tries not to let it show on his face.

“Hello, Technoblade,” he says. “Can I come in?”

For a long minute, Techno says nothing at all. Just stares, motionless, unblinking. Wilbur can’t remember the last time he saw his brother look so shocked.

( _yes you can, you liar, you dirty liar, it was the first time he heard you yell at Tommy, really rip into him, and the shock was only there for a second, he hid it well, but you saw it, you know you did, you just pretended not to, pretended that this was all normal and what you were doing was justified_ )

“I hate to press you, but it’s fucking freezing,” he adds.

“Shit,” Techno says. “Shit, how are you—Phil said that it didn’t— _Wilbur_.” He bursts into motion, then, and Wilbur barely tamps down the instinct to punch him, to claw at him and fight and _get away_ as he suddenly steps forward, gripping him by the forearms, crushingly enough to hurt, to leave bruises later. Wilbur furrows his brow at this reaction, but doesn’t have too much time to think about it, because Techno is _right there_ now, right in his face, and that’s too close. Too close. Too much. Techno’s hands almost seem to be burning through the sleeves of his coat, and his skin tingles, as if there are sparks rushing across it.

“It is you, right?” Techno says. “Not—no, Ghostbur wouldn’t, and— _wow_ , I’m gonna need all of you to be quiet. Wait, so where’s Ghostbur, then?”

The bitterness that washes over him is surprising. Perhaps it shouldn’t be. Because it isn’t surprising that Techno asked as much, and something in him, a snarling, angry thing, whispers, _of course, of course he would rather have Ghostbur than you, of course he’d rather the pathetic amnesiac remnant, the fragment of a soul that couldn’t handle a single negative emotion, much less act on one, of fucking course that’s the version of you that he likes most, what else did you expect?_

( _of course he prefers the you that isn’t insane, that doesn’t lash out at anything and everything, even your own family_ )

“Gone,” he says, short and clipped. “Or so I assume. Sorry to disappoint.”

Techno has the nerve to look confused, his ears twitching. “What? No, that’s not what I—” He stops, then, looking him up and down, his brow furrowing, and Wilbur is about two seconds from breaking out of his hold in the most violent manner possible, because it’s too restraining and too _much_. “Wow. Okay. You are _not_ dressed to be out here. C’mon.”

“Do you really think I don’t know that?” he gripes, but he doesn’t resist as Techno tugs him indoors, biting back a gasp as the warm air surrounds him. He spares a cursory glace for the inside of Techno’s house, but he knows the layout—Ghostbur was here often enough. “Why do you think I wanted to come inside in the first place?”

He’s expecting a snarky comment back. It’s an old song, an old dance that they do, built on sarcasm and quips and hiding all the feelings underneath. But Techno just looks at him again, looks at him like he’s a puzzle, like he’s something to be figured out, like he’s something _unexpected_ , and Wilbur hates it. Hates being under a microscope, scrutinized, and Techno is only one person, but he feels for all the world as though there are people all around him, looking at him, whispering, like he’s on display, stuck in a glass cage for everyone to point at—

“I, uh,” Techno says, “really, that thing about Ghostbur? I was just wonderin’. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, Wilbur, honestly. I just… wasn’t expecting it. Phil said that the whole resurrection thing, uh... didn’t pan out.”

… Right. That’s a thing that happened. Ghostbur and his stupid determination, his stupid insistence that the server needed him back, needed him alive, and Wilbur wishes he could take Ghostbur by the collar of his sweater and shout at him until he got it through his head that Wilbur alive is the absolute last thing _anyone_ needs.

“Yeah, that’s not why I’m here,” he says, and—Techno is _still_ holding him, and it’s weird, and he doesn’t like it. His stomach is doing flips. It’s too _much_ , and it’s especially too much coming from Technoblade of all people, because sustained contact has never been how Techno shows affection, or much of anything else, for that matter, and the fact that he’s doing it now is throwing Wilbur off balance.

So he steps away, further into the house, and it seems that this is finally enough for Techno to get the hint. His hands slip from his arms, and Wilbur pretends that he doesn’t feel very cold all of a sudden, a cold that’s different from the snow and ice of outside, a cold that starts inside and works its way out, and—

“Then why _are_ you here?” Techno asks, and a smile pulls at Wilbur’s lips, twisted and not at all happy.

“Ask Tommy,” he replies. “Or better yet, ask Dream.”

“Dream’s in prison,” Techno shoots back. “You’re telling me he did something from a jail cell?”

“What, Tommy didn’t tell you? It’s the whole reason they kept him alive. To bring me back. Not that anyone bothered to consult me about it, but there you go.”

It’s interesting, watching Techno’s face. He has never been outwardly expressive, has always presented a mask of stoicism to the world, but Wilbur knows him, knows what to look for, knows that the slight tightening around his eyes conveys anger, that the flick of his ears indicates discomfort, and a lot of it. What could be causing that, he wonders, feeling a grim sort of amusement. Is it the fact that Dream is alive? Or the fact that _he_ is?

(which would he like it to be? he doesn’t know. part of him wants Technoblade to be put off by him, he thinks. it proves that things are different. that things have changed from their shared childhood. that his experiences meant something, that they mattered, that they are remembered, that he has a _reason_ to be the way that he is)

“Tommy hasn’t been telling me much of anything, lately,” Techno says, and Wilbur only just manages to pick up on the fact that his voice is too even, too monotone, even for him. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms.” He pauses, maybe waiting for Wilbur to say something, maybe not, but after a moment, he says, “You want a drink or somethin’?”

“That would be nice,” he admits. His shivering has begin to abate, but his clothes are still very damp, and they’re not doing anything to warm him up. He should probably ask for a change, but something in him balks at the idea. He doesn’t want to ask Technoblade for favors. Doesn’t want to owe him anything. He’ll take what’s offered, but that’s all.

“Cool,” Techno says. “I’ll get on that.”

They stare at each other. Nobody moves.

“Right,” Techno says. “I’m just gonna… walk past you here.”

Wilbur steps to the side, letting Techno pass him. He’s close enough to touch, close enough to brush up against him if he were just a few inches to the left,

(and something in him is screaming for it, is longing for a gentle touch, for a touch that doesn’t mean pain and doesn’t mean war and isn’t weighted with a thousand betrayals, but he doesn’t know that he can find that here, so much blood is on the floor between them)

but he doesn’t, and Techno disappears from sight. A moment later, there is a clatter, and the sound of cabinets opening and closing. Wilbur stands there for a moment longer, and then takes it as his cue to make himself comfortable.

Not too comfortable, of course. But he sits on Techno’s couch and peels off his coat, and he immediately feels warmer as the air hits his bare arms. He stares at them for a moment, pale and unmarked, and it feels wrong, that they shouldn’t be scarred. He can’t remember if he ever took wounds there, but he’s sure he did at some point, somewhere between the declaration of war and the battles and the explosions and the exile,

(because respawn brings people back, but it doesn’t erase what happened, not completely, and it’s always a tossup as to what will remain, what will linger on as a reminder)

and frankly, he feels like the ripped and torn state of his soul should show externally _somewhere_.

He breathes out, long and slow, and listens to Techno banging around his kitchen. He braces his forearms against his legs, clasping his hands together and lowering his head.

It might have been a mistake, coming here. He’s not sure what he expected to find, but it wasn’t quite this, wasn’t quite a once-brother who seems to have no idea what to do with him, wasn’t quite conversation that is awkward and stilted and strange because neither of them knows the other anymore, haven’t since the festival, or perhaps since they reunited in Pogtopia, or perhaps since he and Tommy left home, or perhaps since _Techno_ did, or perhaps they never knew each other at all, not really, and they were only playing house all that time.

(that can’t be true, he knows, because he remembers the days when Techno taught him how to fight and he taught him basic guitar chords, remembers the days when he bandaged Tommy’s scrapes and bruises and knew in turn that his little brother would do anything to defend him, remembers the days when the warmth and comfort of Phil’s wings were only a step and a heartbeat away, and they were happy, they were, they _were_ )

Absently, he brings one hand up to touch his chest. He thinks he’s searching for his heartbeat, searching for a bit of reassurance, a bit of stability, but that’s not what he gets. He can feel it even through his shirt, a knot of gnarled scar tissue, thick and raised against the rest of his skin. He slips his hand under his shirt to better prod at it, to map out its edges, and it should hurt, probably, but it doesn’t. There’s not much sensation there at all, a numbness that speaks to nerve endings that didn’t quite heal right.

He knows what it is. He’s not surprised that he brought it back with him.

“Um,” Techno says, and he looks up. Techno is back, is standing in front of him with two steaming mugs, is openly fidgeting, obviously unnerved, and Wilbur might congratulate himself on it if the circumstances were any different. As it is, he takes his hand out from under his shirt and gives Techno a flat stare.

After a moment, Techno huffs and settles on the opposite end of the couch, offering him a mug. Wilbur accepts it, sniffs it, and the scent is familiar, but he can’t place it. He takes a small, cautious sip and almost spits it back out, and not because it scalds his tongue, though it does. He knows what it is as soon as the flavor hits his taste buds, and for a split second, he is overwhelmed by

(tea in his hands and more on the kettle, his father’s voice, low and soothing, and so much nostalgia that he chokes on it)

memories. It’s been so long since he had this. So very, very long.

“Phil left some behind last time he was here,” Techno says. Wilbur looks at him; he’s regarding him carefully, as if he thinks he’s going to—to do what? What does Techno think he’s going to do? Yell? Attack? Bolt? All of those have their attractions, but he sits there instead, his mouth burning with the remnants of the heat.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he opens his mouth.

“I haven’t had this blend since before Tommy and I left home,” he says, the words spilling out without his permission. “It was… the day before, I think? Sometime that week, at least. Phil and I sat in the kitchen and drank tea together, and he told me—” He cuts himself off; that’s too personal. It hurts too much to think about, now.

(he looked into his eyes and said, _I’m proud of you, Wilbur_ , and he tries not to think about it too much, because thinking about it too much means interposing that Phil’s face, calm and smiling and happy, over the face of the Phil that he saw next, tears streaking down his cheeks and his expression twisted in desperation and grief as Wilbur begged him to— _stop don’t go there not right now_ )

“He’s got his own base now,” Techno says, “but he’s not too far away. He said he might stop by tonight. You wanna stick around for that?”

Wilbur goes cold.

He hadn’t really considered it, in all honesty, hadn’t given due thought to seeing Phil, even though he knew very well that he would at least be in the area. Faced with the possibility, he’s not sure what to do with it.

It’s not what he’s here for. That much is certain. He should try to keep from being distracted, probably. He needs to remember that he’s not here with Techno out of familial obligation, but rather out of a desire to find information, to better know what he is about to be walking into.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.” He takes another sip of his tea. Swallows. Gathers up all of his emotions, and locks them away in a box.

He’s never been too good at compartmentalizing. But he can do it. It’s necessary,

(when you’re not even twenty-five years old and leading your little brother into a war)

sometimes.

“I was hoping you could tell me what’s been going on lately,” he says. “I want to go see Tommy, but I don’t want to walk in without knowing anything.”

Techno snorts.

“I figured it’d be something like that,” he says frankly, and Wilbur’s not quite sure how to take that. “I don’t know why you think I know anything. I don’t exactly have many friends over there right now.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” he responds, quiet and serious, meeting Techno’s eyes. He doesn’t quite know what expression he’s making, but it must be enough to persuade Technoblade, because Techno lets out a sigh, rolling his eyes.

And he talks.

He’s not lying; he doesn’t know much about the state of the server as it is now. But he knows some things, and Wilbur is interested in hearing them. Is interested in hearing about what Techno knows about the final battle against Dream. Is interested in what happened before, and what has happened since—there doesn’t seem to be a lot in the second category, thankfully, so perhaps Tommy has been able to enjoy some peace for once. Wilbur’s about to waltz in and destroy it, of course, but at least he had it for a time.

The exhaustion hits when Techno begins to talk about some kind of egg. Egg government. Egg cult? Techno doesn’t seem to know which it is, and Wilbur can’t make heads or tails of it, and it is then that he realizes that his eyelids are drooping. Which is not good; he didn’t intend to fall asleep here, and frankly, he’s not convinced that it would be safe to do so.

( _lie_ )

But his body refuses to listen to his rational mind, and his thoughts are growing fuzzier by the minute, Techno’s voice falling further and further away. Still talking about the egg. It must be an important egg.

And then, the voice stops. Blearily, Wilbur lifts his head. He hadn’t realized that he’d begun to nod off. Techno is looking at him, something that can’t be softness in his eyes, something that can’t be fondness, because that affection was spent a long time ago, somewhere between Pogtopia and what came afterward.

“You still with me?” Techno asks.

He frowns. “Of course,” he tries to say, but the words come out slurred, just enough that he has no hope of hiding it or excusing it. Sure enough, Techno just laughs. At him. Which is rude and annoying.

“Sure,” he agrees, his voice making it clear that he is not actually agreeing at all. Before Wilbur can protest, he reaches over and plucks the mug from his hands. “I’ve got some guest rooms. Do you want me to set you up?”

“‘M not staying,” he says. Because he’s not. He’s made that determination just now. He’s gotten the information he needs out of Technoblade, and it’s time to move on. He doesn’t want to stay here,

(in a comfortable bed, safe under his brother’s watch, safe for the first time in forever, safe, safe, safe)

that’s for sure.

“Okay,” Techno says, and Wilbur is finding it increasingly difficult to think—and this exhaustion has hit fast, and that better be all that it is, because he doesn’t have the time to be sick—but he is still well aware that he is being mocked. “I’m gonna get you a bed ready, how’s that?”

“No, fuck you,” he mutters, but Techno is already gone, walking upstairs, chuckling to himself. Wilbur glares after him, trying to set him on fire with the force of his gaze, but it doesn’t work, and he is left alone in the room, on the couch, and it seems that he’s not going anywhere tonight. Not unless he takes this opportunity to leave, to venture back out into the cold with nothing but a trenchcoat that hasn’t even finished drying from his first expedition, and—

And this couch is comfortable, actually. Perhaps he can give himself permission to relax. Just this once.

He lies down. Curls up. It’s warm like this. Nice. His mind starts to drift.

He is vaguely aware of Techno’s return, sort-of cognizant of the way he stands over him for a few minutes before muttering to himself, too quiet for Wilbur to bother to parse the words out. Then, there is something covering him, soft and warm, and he must be tired to the point of hallucinations if he truly believes that Techno has just—what, tucked him in? That’s ridiculous. But it’s a problem for the morning.

There is a flash of blue in the corner of his eye. But he’s too out of it to pay it any mind.

Wilbur lets himself sleep.

He wakes up once, to the sound of a door opening, to the sound of voices, two of them, quiet and familiar. He doesn’t know what they’re saying. He doesn’t care. He’s safe here. That’s what matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time Wilbur insults Ghostbur I cry a little bit on the inside. I adore Ghostbur. Unfortunately, Wilbur does not. I might possibly have some plans regarding that, though, so stay tuned :)
> 
> Next up, Chapter Three: In which Wilbur frankly has no idea how a reunion with his father is supposed to go, considering the circumstances. Also, the author has mentioned blue in the corner of his eye twice now, so it must be important, right?


	3. listening for that angel choir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be fine, I said. I'll be writing shorter chapters, I said. Maybe I'll even be able to update more than once a week, I said.
> 
> Guys, this chapter is over 6k. It's doubled the length of this fic. I'm such a fool. I should have expected this. So uh... not all chapters will be this long, because I simply can't sustain that, but it's definitely in the realm of possibility, I guess.
> 
> Also lol I'm glad y'all like Technosoft. Sure would be a shame if something angsty were to happen this chapter, huh.
> 
> Chapter content warnings include swearing, continued suicidal ideation, and a non-graphic panic attack.

He comes to awareness violently, lurching into a sitting position, his hand outstretched before him. He is silent, but that’s probably only because he trained himself to be, back when they were so afraid of someone finding where they were, down in that dark, hidden ravine, stone on all sides and darkness above, closing in. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about,

(fire all around and the world falling to pieces and it’s all so very beautiful, and the worst thing is Tommy’s horrified face but he’s too far gone to care)

but the vestiges cling to him like cobwebs, difficult to shake off. He takes a moment to steady himself, to bring his breathing back under control, and then looks around, the remembrance of where he is coming swiftly. Technoblade’s living room is unchanged from last night, but there is no sign of Technoblade himself.

There is, however, someone in the kitchen.

He can smell food—eggs, he thinks. There’s someone moving around, their tread light and sure, and he knows those footsteps, knows them like he knows his own name.

He is standing before he can think better of it, and it is habit that keeps his own strides silent. He walks to the doorway of the kitchen and stops there, stops because there is a man at the stove, his back turned to him, but Wilbur doesn’t need to see his face to know him. He never has.

Something about this picture is wrong, though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s seen this a thousand times, if not in this setting, has woken up to this exact thing on countless occasions, back in their old home, back before Techno started going off to tournaments, before Tommy and he left to make their own ways, before Phil started spending more and more time on hardcore worlds, out of contact. Before all of that, it was just this, just Phil making them all breakfast in the sun-soaked morning.

Something about it is wrong, and he can’t pick it out, and he can’t stand here forever. He could leave, could turn his back and slip out the front door when no one is watching, but that won’t be well-received, and he hardly wants to be followed. That really only gives him one other option, and it’s ridiculous, how fast his heart is beating, because it’s just _Phil_.

( _it’s just Phil, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? just Phil, and you can’t face him, not after what he did, not after what you made him do_ )

It’s just Phil.

So he leans against the doorway, and he clears his throat.

Phil whirls around, spatula raised.

( _was he always on such a hair trigger? or is that new?_ )

He lowers it after a split second, his face flickering through several expressions too fast for Wilbur to process. Eventually, he settles on a warm smile, but there is something lurking around the edges, something that he is hiding, though Wilbur has no hope of figuring out what. For some reason, this doesn’t feel like seeing Techno again at all. With Techno, it barely took a moment for old patterns to resurface, barely took a moment to remember how to read him, but with Phil, it’s almost like looking at the face of a stranger.

( _did you think he’d be the same? did you think he would be unaffected? even the most stable of anchors rusts eventually, exposed to the deep water)_

“Wilbur!” Phil says, and he could weep to hear the sound of his voice, even though it hasn’t been that long, not technically. Not that long since the last time Ghostbur spoke to him. “Good morning! Did you sleep alright?”

He thinks about his nightmares and decides not to say anything.

“Pretty alright,” he says, and then adds, belatedly, “Good morning.”

The words come out awkwardly. It’s too casual, too normal, and everything that’s happened since the last time they ate breakfast together is sitting in the air between them, about as unobtrusive as a flashing creeper and just as dangerous. There’s too much left unsaid, and he has no idea how to go about fixing that.

So he just keeps standing there. Silently. And Phil stands there too, just as silent, just as watchful, just as awkward, and perhaps Wilbur should take comfort in the fact that he, too, seems to have no idea what to do. But he finds no room for comfort within himself, only a vague resentment, because wasn’t Phil planning to bring him back anyway? Just what was his plan for afterward, if he had managed to succeed? Was it this? This silence, this hesitance, this painful awareness of the distance between them, of all the things that went so bitterly, terribly wrong?

If this was his plan, Wilbur can’t say that he’s all that impressed with it.

But then, Phil steps forward. Only a bit, and slowly, as if he’s approaching a startled animal. Wilbur would be angry at the implication if he didn’t feel like he was one, if there weren’t something snarling and desperate caged within his ribcage, calling for him to either fight or flee.

“Would it—” Phil starts, and then stops, and it’s odd, because Wilbur doesn’t remember his father ever being so hesitant. Phil’s confidence has always been quiet, but at the same time unmistakable, and that makes this so very strange. “Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he goes on to say, and Wilbur’s brain stutters to a halt.

He can’t help but remember

(the spatula becomes a sword and his great creation is in ruins around him and he is laughing and sobbing and wild and everything is spiraling, spiraling, and what a glorious destruction it is, a beautiful chaos, and the center cannot hold and he is begging pleading shouting and there are tears streaming down his father’s face and an awful waver in his voice, but the sword is in his chest and he can feel nothing but relief, relief, _relief, it’s over now, you can rest, your symphony is not finished never finished but it is over at long last, good night, good night and goodbye_ )

the last time Phil held him.

But that was then, and this is now,

(isn’t it?)

and Phil is watching him with an expression that might be either desperation or hunger, masked behind a slight smile, and that is what drives him to nod, what drives him to open his arms slightly, and then Phil is embracing him, and—

The mess in his head goes quiet. Just for a second, his father is enough to drive his demons away.

And it’s like fireworks on his skin, fireworks at first and then an all-encompassing warmth, and he doesn’t fit into Phil’s arms quite the same as he did when he was a child, is taller, older, cobbled-together pieces of the bright future he used to have, but something in him recognizes this feeling, recognizes it as safety, as comfort, as home. He slumps a bit, melting into the touch, and Phil doesn’t complain at suddenly holding up half of his weight, just adjusts his position a bit and grips him tightly, like he thinks that Wilbur might disappear if he lets go.

“God, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Wilbur closes his eyes against the words. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Phil that he isn’t. Even if for a moment, he can pretend. Pretend that this was his idea, that he’s alright with this, that what he wishes more than anything else isn’t to escape back into rest and away from this world that is too bright and too sharp and too laden with consequences.

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, and that, at least, is mostly honest.

His hands are clutching the back of Phil’s shirt, entangled in the fabric, and beneath his hands, he can feel Phil’s wings shifting. It is then that he realizes what he didn’t, earlier: Phil is hiding his wings, and _that_ is what is wrong, because Phil never does that around the house. Never.

Though, come to think of it, Ghostbur never saw him with his wings out either. Not once.

Did Ghostbur ever question it? Did he ask and then forget about it, because the answer upset him? Or did he just not bother, presuming that Phil had his reasons and that everything was alright? That sounds like something Ghostbur would do, and for a moment, he is overwhelmed by a seething rage at his dead counterpart, because _why_ couldn’t he ever be useful—

(better to be useless and happy than alive and miserable and the cause of everyone else’s misery to boot, better to forget than to remember, better to let it all go and float away in the wind with the dandelions and the blue blue sky)

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, and he realizes that he’s balled his hands into fists. He pulls away from the hug, steps back to meet Phil’s eyes, pretends that the sudden lack of contact doesn’t leave him feeling bereft.

He tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he manages very well. His skin feels as though it’s stretching oddly, as though it’s forgotten the proper shape for the expression.

“I’m fine,” he says, and that— _that_ is a lie. That is a lie for sure. But what else is he supposed to say?

The wings—or lack thereof—are bothering him. Now that he’s spotted their absence, he can’t unsee it. He’s not sure how to ask, though, because he has the sneaking suspicion that

( _he shielded you you idiot shielded you from your own explosion from your own destruction don’t you remember don’t you remember the way he cried out and the feathers in the air and he was holding you holding you don’t you remember don’t you remember how he tried to protect you even to the last don’t you remember_ )

there’s something about it that he’s not understanding, still, and he hates this, hates not even being able to trust to his own recollections, but he supposes that’s what he gets for his troubles. A beating heart and a mind full of holes and a wide open world that feels like a cage and a precarious stability that he thinks might go out from under him at any moment, like sand into a hidden ravine, and he’ll be sent down, down, down—

“Oh, great,” Techno says, and Wilbur jerks, wheeling around. He hadn’t heard him—but then, Techno has always been able to move far more silently than ought to be possible for someone with such a terrifying presence, with such a weight to his blood-soaked step. “You guys are being weird, aren’t you?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“We’re not being weird, what are you on about?”

His voice overlaps with Phil’s, and it’s a bit weird.

Techno snorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “Don’t be weird in my house, you guys,” he says. “If you’ve gotta be weird, do it somewhere else. I can’t take this.”

“What, the great Technoblade can’t handle an awkward social situation?” he says, and there is more bite to his voice than he intends, and Techno hears it, judging by the way his lips twist into a scowl.

“You know I can’t,” he says. “I hate socializing.”

What should have been a joke has turned into something that is—not. Wilbur should have known better than to push, maybe, should have known better than to call Techno out, because Techno _does_ hate socializing, _does_ hate being forced into awkward situations, hates an enemy that he cannot defeat with his sword. But then, none of that is quite right either, because awkward social situations are one thing. This should be quite another. Because they’re family, or at least, they’re meant to be, and no amount of awkwardness should be able to outweigh that. And yet, here they are, Techno glaring and Phil quiet and Wilbur suppressing the urge to bolt from the room and start sprinting across the tundra.

Staying the night was a mistake. Not leaving when he could was a bigger one. He’s not sure what he was thinking.

(he does, he does know what he was thinking, and he was thinking that he wanted things to be the way they used to be, if he was going to be alive, if he was going to be forced to live in this world once again, he wanted a family that was strong and steady and whole, not the fractured mess that this is, not fragmented and separated and snapping at one another’s throats)

“I’m making breakfast,” Phil puts in. He seems so very weary. Wilbur’s not sure why he’s only picking up on that now, but the bags under his eyes could probably pass for bruises. “Techno, Wil, how about you sit down? The eggs’ll be off in just a few minutes.”

Techno huffs, shooting Wilbur one last glare. But then, he does as Phil asks, sidling past to sit at the dining table, the chair legs making an awful scraping sound against the floor.

Wilbur remains standing.

“C’mon, Wilbur, come sit down,” Techno says. “I want eggs.”

Something shifts. His blood is buzzing, like his veins have been replaced with live wires. It’s a picture of domesticity, father making breakfast and son waiting for it, and he belonged here once but now he’s a piece that doesn’t fit, his edges worn away and grown out wrong.

(they shouldn’t fit either, and it’s wrong that they do, wrong that they’re comfortable with this even when the picture is incomplete and Tommy isn’t _here_ )

“I’m not staying,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he does. And once he does, it’s out there, and he can’t take it back. But he doesn’t think he would if he could. It’s the truth, even if he’s only just discovering it. He’s not staying. He can’t.

Phil has turned back to the stove, but Wilbur can see the way his back goes stiff, the way his shoulders hunch, just a little.

“It’s breakfast,” Techno says slowly, almost bewildered, if Techno did bewilderment. He doesn’t, usually, but perhaps that’s another thing that’s changed sometime between Wilbur’s death and now. “You can’t stay for breakfast?”

“I can make something else, if you don’t want eggs,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur barely catches the words.

“It’s not about the eggs and you know it,” he snaps, and then stops to take a breath. Phil is silent. “Look, I wasn’t even planning on being here as long as I have been. Where’s Tommy?”

“At his old home, I think,” Techno says. He is holding himself very still, watching Wilbur very carefully, and viciously, cruelly, Wilbur considers making the attack that he is so clearly expecting. Considers leaping across the table and going for his throat, rolling around on the ground like they did when they were kids, playing, roughhousing, sparring, only this wouldn’t be any of those things. He wouldn’t be able to defeat Technoblade, of course, but he’d be able to get a good few licks in, even if he doesn’t have a real reason to do so,

(he wasn’t there for Tommy he left Tommy alone left him to that monster’s mercy he abandoned him and even when Tommy came to him he discarded him again tossed him aside as if they weren’t raised together weren’t brothers as if none of it meant anything at all he spawned withers in L’manberg and destroyed it destroyed it all destroyed even what it stood for and there won’t be any coming back from that)

even if his rage is aimless, directionless, building in him like a volcano begging to erupt, begging to destroy everything in its path, to delight in the carnage and—

He’s felt like this before. He’s felt like this before, and it didn’t end well, and it set the stage for all of Tommy’s suffering, and if that’s not a reason to try to hold back, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not what I was asking,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you why he’s not here. You don’t see a problem with it?”

“We’re not on the best terms with Tommy at the moment,” Phil says quietly, and Wilbur wishes he would turn around so he could see his expression, but for now he’ll settle for glowering at his back.

(where was the father when his son needed him the most? not there, not there, never there, and what happened to the father who raised them, to the father who promised he would always be by their sides?)

“And whose fault is that?” he demands. “He’s a fucking kid, Phil! He needed someone in his corner, literally anyone, and I’m sorry, but the fucking amnesiac ghost couldn’t quite cut it!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Phil asks. “Do you really think I don’t have any regrets? That I wouldn’t give anything to have him here, safe with us?” Phil wheels around, then, and usually, in times past, such a motion would be accompanied by a flaring of wings, an instinctive response, but there are no wings behind him, and without them he looks so very small. Once again, Wilbur is struck with that overwhelming sense of _wrongness_. “I know damn well that I failed him, Wil, that I failed all of you. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“Phil, wait, no—” Techno starts, but Phil shakes his head.

“I have, Techno, don’t try to deny it. I’ve failed you all, and the worst bit is that even when I had chances to try to fix things, I didn’t take them. Haven’t taken them.” He meets Wilbur’s eyes. “All I can do about that is apologize. I am sorry, truly. But Tommy doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that clear, both after you died and after Techno and I destroyed L’Manberg. If you’ve got ideas, Wilbur, I’m open to them.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that? His rage shrivels up, becoming something cold and hard and acrid on his tongue. Phil believes what he’s saying, that much is clear, and perhaps that’s the most disappointing thing of all, that he’s given up so easily, given up on keeping their family together.

(part of him understands. part of him understands that in the wake of everything, in the wake of his father murdering one of his sons and alienating the other, of course he would retreat to the third, to the one who was still there, to the one he thought he could still help. part of him understands the way that he clings to Techno, unwilling to lose, in his eyes, the only son he had left to him. part of him understands why Phil always takes Techno’s side)

(but part of him whispers, bitter and sharp, that Techno has always been the favorite. so was it ever really a choice, between Techno and Tommy? did he lose sleep over it, any time during the late watches of the night? or was he secure in his opinion that he’d done all that he could do, even though he never tried to do more?)

“I need to go,” he says, and braces himself for their renewed protests. But Techno is silent, and at length, Phil nods once, short and sharp.

“Will you be coming back?” he asks, and Wilbur gives the question due consideration.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Phil closes his eyes. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “Please be safe.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get, as close to an understanding as they will reach, and somehow, it sounds like more of an apology than anything else Phil has said. And if, for his own peace of mind, Wilbur has to pretend that he doesn’t hear how wrecked Phil sounds, how he seems to have aged another five years in the past five minutes, well.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he’s not sure whether he means it or not, and he thinks that if he stays here any longer, in this small kitchen with eggs on the stove and his father standing in front of him like he’s pronouncing a death sentence and his brother glaring balefully from one side, he will lose his resolve.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really. That compulsion is gone, it seems, washed away in the peace of the void, and only time will tell if it will return, now that he’s been ripped back into existence.

But in the end, hurting them is the thing he knows how to do best.

So he leaves. Nods once, sharply, turns on his heel, and walks toward the front door, grabbing his coat as he goes. It’s not in the same spot he left it in last night, is draped near the crackling fire, and there’s only two people who could have placed it there and Phil wasn’t there by the time he fell asleep, he knows, and his mind recalls the sensation of a blanket being draped over him. That is enough to get him to stop, to pause.

But not to stay.

The sunlight is cold, but he barely feels it at all.

* * *

He manages to make it out of the tundra before he breaks down.

He wasn’t expecting it, even though he probably should have been, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he blinks and he’s on the ground, hands braced against wet grass, heaving for breath because this is _so fucking fucked up_ —

It was a mistake. Going to Technoblade was a mistake, because now he and Phil both know that he’s back and he just walked out on them and he’s so angry at them for so many things but now they’re probably angry right back and _when_ the fuck did his family get so fucking broken? And now he’s here, in the forest again, and he’s all on his own

(but he’s not on his own and there are so many eyes watching him)

(he is on his own because there’s no one to stand with him, no one brave enough, no one who truly sees)

(he is on his own because he’s pushed everyone else away and even at his lowest point there was a voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to stop to walk away to take a step back and gain some fucking perspective but there’s no one _there_ for him and it’s all his fault)

(he is on his own even though Tommy is still there, despite everything, because even Tommy is wary of him now and that same voice tells him that he deserves it even as he denies it all and decries his little brother for a traitor)

(but he’s _not on his own_ )

and his empty stomach is rolling and he can’t fucking manage to get a good breath in, and this might be how he dies again, and he doesn’t think he would mind all that much if it was because he still doesn’t want to be here, with all the cares and all the worries and all the responsibilities piling up on his back once again, and who the _fuck_ thought this was a good idea? Who the absolute, ever-loving _fuck_ took a look at what he did last time, took a look at how he cracked under the strain and blew up a city, and thought that it was a good idea to bring him back into the world?

In fairytales, when monsters die, no one brings them back. The victory is celebrated and the villain forgotten and their grave spat on. Wilbur never got a grave, but the principle should be the same.

He still can’t breathe properly. He’s gasping for air, but he can barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He might die here. He might die here, and he’d be mostly fine with that, if it weren’t for—

Tommy.

It’s probably Tommy’s fault that he’s here. Probably Tommy who—got Dream to resurrect him, and he really does need the details about that. But he still wants to see him, still wants to see his brother, and the original plan holds true. Find Tommy, then kill Dream, and maybe then he can think about his options. He can’t allow himself to die here, even if he feels like he’s going to, like his ribs are going to crack apart and his brain pound right out of his skull.

(and even besides all of that, what would Tommy think if he saw the message on his communicator, saw _WilburSoot died_ without any context at all, without knowing that he was back in the first place?)

It’s easier when there’s someone there to help him. But he has no one, so he regulates his breathing himself, little by little, his progress set back every time a new wave of panic and desperation crests over him and makes him choke on air. But he does it. It’s not pretty, but he does it, and after some time, he’s kneeling in the grass, exhausted and wrung out and still here, for better or for worse.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” Each one increases in volume, and by the last one, he’s shouting. No one answers. He thinks he startles a few birds.

And then the forest is silent. He curls his fists into the grass, tearing up a few blades.

To the side, there is a flash of blue.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

(there’s something he’s forgetting)

“Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rough and hoarse. “You’ve been following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come out where I can see you!”

He gets no response, but he can’t say that he was expecting one. He clambers to his feet, sighing sharply through his nose.

(there’s something he’s forgetting something was it something he said to Tommy what was it)

“Last warning,” he says. “Come out. Or I’ll make you.”

It’s an empty threat, said with more confidence than he feels. But he has to be right about this, has to be, or else he’s been hallucinating, has been letting his paranoia get the best of him already, _again_ , and if that’s going to be the case, maybe Tommy really would be better off without him there, because he refuses to go down that same road now that he knows where it leads.

(even though part of him still yearns for it, yearns to go to hell and take everything with him)

(it was something he said to Tommy, in that moment when the veil between worlds was thin and he could see his brother there, plain as day, sitting on that bench with Tubbo at his side, and Tommy said Dream could bring him back and he said no fucking thank you and also that)

“Aw, you been pining for me, Wilbur?” someone says, and it all falls into place.

(he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t alone in the void. as much as he might have liked to be, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. he wasn’t alone. not then, and not)

He pivots, and uses the momentum to send his fist right into Schlatt’s stupid, smug face.

And it passes right though him. It’s a strange sensation, one that sends sparks of electricity up his arm and feels a bit like dozens of tiny firecrackers are going off. For a split second, there is a bit of resistance, and then a give that sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

“Did that make you feel better?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stepping back. “What the fuck are you—what are you _wearing_?”

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Schlatt wear anything but his signature suit and tie. Not since they were young, anyway, young and stupid and ready to take on the world,

(for each other, and where did that fall through?)

so painfully ignorant of everything to come. But the Schlatt in front of him is not the Schlatt he knows, not quite, is _off_ in so many subtle ways and one big one. His pallor is grey, his horns chipped and cracked, his hair mussed and disarrayed, but all of that is overshadowed by the oversized blue sweater, a horrible parody of Ghostbur’s yellow one, and honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

“What, you don’t like it?” Schlatt smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and—his teeth didn’t use to be so pointy, right? “I think it’s a fashion statement. All the rage with ghosts these days.” He steps back, and the movement is wrong; it’s so obvious that his feet have no real traction on the ground, that he’s moving in the same way that Wilbur remembers Ghostbur doing, willing himself into the new space rather than working dead muscles.

(funny, though, that Schlatt would at least pretend to walk, would at least pretend at some semblance of normalcy. Ghostbur almost never did, was always content to float around and disregard the unease he caused, to hand out blue and avoid any confrontation that might make him uncomfortable. but then, Ghostbur was completely happy to be the way that he was)

“You’re an arsehole,” Wilbur grits out. “The fuck are you doing here?”

And just like that, the pretense is gone. Schlatt rises into the air, tilting forward, though he keeps his eyes level with Wilbur’s, scowling ferociously. He’s a bit transparent around the edges, Wilbur notes absently, a bit fuzzy, like he’s dissolving into the air bit by bit.

“You think I want to be?” Schlatt says. “You think I wanna be here, Wilbur, really? I had all the booze I could possibly want and none of the pitfalls, and now I’m here, in this shitty world with all the shitty people I never wanted to see again, and I can’t even fucking touch anything!”

His hand lashes out, and Wilbur flinches on instinct, but it passes through his shoulder harmlessly. There is the strange electric sensation again, but other than that, nothing.

“You think this is what I want?” he continues. “I’m fucking dead and I want to stay that way. None of this haunting bullshit. My business here is fucking finished. Over. Done. I don’t want to be here.” He pauses, and it’s for effect, because he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just a dramatic arsehole. “And yet, whatever asshole dragged you back down here caught me too. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are, but I can’t figure out how to get back. So that’s a fucking, I don’t know. Fucking karma, maybe. How’ve you been?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment. He starts laughing before he can stop himself, hysterical gusts, torn from him like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs out, and he doubles over, bracing himself against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he eventually manages. “I don’t wanna fucking be here either. This is so fucked.”

Schlatt is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the last of Wilbur’s laughter, dying down into desperate chuckles. It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it’s either laugh or have another breakdown, and he’s filled his break down quota for the hour.

“I figured,” Schlatt says, calmer now, quieter. He drifts back down so his feet at least appear to be touching the ground. “I figured, I knew you didn’t want to—fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and once again, Wilbur is struck by the action. It’s for effect, or perhaps it’s just habit, but either way, the dead don’t need to breathe. Can’t, really, though they can go through the motions if they put the effort in.

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” he says, and there is absolutely no heat in it at all. “Why are you here?”

Schlatt looks at him incredulously. “I just said—”

“No, I mean _here_.” He gestures. “With me. Unless you have to be, or something like that.”

“Nah, I can walk away from you,” Schlatt says wryly. “Believe me, that’s the first thing I tried. But where the fuck else do you think I’m gonna go, Wilbur? You think I’ve got anybody waiting for me with open arms? That’s ridiculous.” He pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can see me. I did a little tap dance routine for Technoblade earlier and got absolutely nothing, so.”

“ _What_?”

“No, yeah, see? I can go invisible, like this, and hide from you,” Schlatt says, completely ignoring what his question was actually about, the bastard. And then, he vanishes, like he was never—wait. No, he’s still there, but Wilbur can only tell if he’s not looking directly at him. And even then, it’s just a faint shimmering, and an almost transparent splash of the color blue. _“I_ can tell I’m invisible when I do that. But when I do this—” He reappears, his arms crossed— “no one else can see me. Except you, apparently. Make my fucking day, why don’t you.”

“Gladly,” he replies automatically. “Wait, why is that even a thing?”

“You’re asking me?” Schlatt demands. “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who was a ghost for months, you should know how this works!”

“I really don’t,” he says. “And besides, Ghostbur wasn’t actually me. Just a fragment. A shadow.”

“Real poetic,” Schlatt mutters, and, well. Wilbur doesn’t have much to say to that.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Or rather, Wilbur stands, and Schlatt drifts about half an inch off the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the grass. He briefly considers whether attempting to punch him in the face again would be worth it or not, but dismisses the idea. Dismisses it a lot more easily than he should, actually.

“I feel like I’m not as angry with you as I definitely should be,” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pissed,” Schlatt says, and then, after a moment, adds, “Not so much at you, though. I mean, I am. But not more than I am at the general everything. Do you remember much of the—the you know?”

He

(darkness all around and a howling emptiness but so much better than the world so much more peaceful and after a while the void felt like an embrace, felt like coming home)

(Schlatt was loud and irritating and the clink of his whiskey glasses made him want to kill him all over again but it was a break from the monotony and it was nice, sometimes, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood if only a little, someone with whom he didn’t have to hide his shattered edges in favor of painting a prettier picture)

(empty and not and there is no death for the already-dead so the only thing to do is come to an understanding)

doesn’t, not really, only recalls a general sense of peace, the rest that he so craved, attained at least. And he knows that Schlatt was there, too, knows it, but while he remembers talking to Tommy, that one time, he can’t remember if he ever actually spoke to Schlatt. Evidence is pointing toward the affirmative, he thinks.

“Not much,” he says. “Do you?”

“I remember it was better than here,” Schlatt says. He kicks at the ground, and scowls when his foot won’t make contact with anything substantial. “I had all the booze I could’ve wanted. Sure, none of it was real, but that didn’t matter much. I’d kill to have a drink right now. Literally, I would murder someone.”

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Shut the fuck your mouth.”

“I’m planning on seeing Dream,” he says, ignoring that. “After I find Tommy, anyway. I’ll make him tell me what he did to bring me back. And you, too, I suppose, assuming it was the same thing. Why are you a ghost when I’m not?”

“You keep asking me these questions like you expect me to know the answers,” Schlatt says. He levels his glare at him, but it doesn’t look very angry. Just tired. Wilbur knows the feeling. “Ask him to send me back, how about? I don’t want to fucking be here.”

His eyes slip shut. “Neither do I,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than it has any right to be. His tone matches Schlatt’s: tired, exhausted, weary, wrung out, _sick_ of everything.

When he opens his eyes, Schlatt is gone. There is no sign of blue, no shimmer in the air. He’s really gone, then, but he assumes he’ll be back. For better or for worse.

He sighs, gathers himself, and resumes his march through the forest, looking for Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I'm keeping this fic in Wilbur's pov so you guys don't get to see how Phil and Techno had a mutual breakdown after Wilbur left haha.
> 
> (Everyone gets some angst in this fic, I am an equal opportunity angst giver :) )
> 
> Originally Ranboo was supposed to show up, but this chapter is just. Too long already. But memory boy will make an appearance at some point, I promise. Also, Schlatt is a joy to write, so I hope I did him justice. I love writing asshole characters, just, so much.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments so far, you guys are amazing! If you're liking this fic, feel free to comment! I absolutely love hearing what you think!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Four: In which Wilbur visits L'Manhole, has his first encounter with the blood vines (and doesn't think very much of them), and finally sees Tommy again.


	4. head in the dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 2.5k hits in three chapters, and I'm just ??? ???? Is this what it's like to write for an active fandom?? Seriously, though, thank you guys so much for all the support, it means the world!
> 
> This chapter is... only marginally shorter than the last one. Oops.
> 
> Content warnings for swearing and continued suicidal ideation.

L’Manberg really is just a crater in the ground, now.

He knew, of course. Ghostbur saw it in the aftermath, in the aftermath of the TNT and the withers and Techno and Phil standing shoulder to shoulder with Dream, an unholy alliance that no one else stood a chance against.

(is he angry at them, for allying with Dream? he’s done the same thing, and business is business no matter the devil you’re dealing with, as long as you don’t mind your soul being blackened)

(for Tommy’s sake, there is anger. for anyone else’s, well. he doesn’t think he has a right to be indignant on their behalf, not about this, not unless he wants to add being the worst type of hypocrite to his stack of crimes)

But Ghostbur was focused on Friend, then, and not so much the ruin of everything else. It hits differently, to see it now, to see a crater in the ground filled with rubble and broken buildings, the remains of something that used to be more, that used to stand for something, that aspired to a symbol that it could never truly embody.

(not when it was built on a flawed foundation, traitors and child soldiers and a flight path too close to the sun)

Overhead, thunder rumbles. Distant, but there are clouds gathering.

The melody comes to his mind unbidden, lilting and soft. He hums a few bars experimentally. And then a few more, staring out over the wreckage, eyes tracing over the remains of structures that are both familiar and not. So little of his L’Manberg was left by the time Phil and Techno destroyed it, and it is odd to recognize what it turned into, Ghostbur’s memories at odds with the knowledge that he wasn’t here to see it, was very much dead and at peace.

He keeps humming. There is a

(symphony)

song, the song, begging to be played, and he wishes he had his guitar. He’s not sure where it is. He can’t remember whether Ghostbur had it, whether it was left to be destroyed along with everything else. Or whether it was abandoned in Pogtopia, and there it still lies, gathering dust in an empty ravine with the remnants of the potato farms and the training rooms and the corridors they hollowed out and called their own.

The words won’t come to his lips. He knows them intimately, like he knows his own name or perhaps even better, but he holds back.

Lightning forks through the sky. For a second, all the world is black and white, his vision painted with stark shadows. The clouds are darkening; the skies will open up any moment now. He feels a burst of fear, a burst of _get inside, get inside now, you’ll melt_ , and then remembers that he is not Ghostbur, and that a little bit of rain won’t hurt him at all.

It is time to move on, though. Lingering here will gain him nothing.

He looks out over what is left of L’Manberg one last time. And then turns on his heel and continues walking down the Prime Path, his coat flaring out behind him.

It feels so odd to be here, to be walking this road so openly. He hasn’t seen anyone yet, and he probably has the oncoming storm to thank for it. And he is thankful; he’s not sure how he would react if he ran into anyone, or how they would react to running into him. There are old friends here alongside old enemies, as well as people that he hasn’t even met, not really, not properly, not as himself. Time’s marched on without him, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what to make of the changes that have happened in his absence.

He does know that he doesn’t particularly want to see anyone. Anyone other than Tommy, that is. So he’s glad that no one seems to be out and about.

He’s lost in his own thoughts. So he doesn’t notice the vines until he trips right over one, barely catching himself before he falls. He frowns, his humming dying in his throat at he stares at the obstacle.

This is definitely new. Did Ghostbur know anything about it? He can’t remember whether or not he did, which is hardly a good indicator of anything. Either way, now that he’s seen one, he sees a lot more, dotting the landscape all around him—and they were down in the crater too, weren’t they? Thick vines, blood red in color, creeping across the ground and over buildings. They fill him with a sense of uneasiness; the way they grow reminds him of kudzu, covering things and choking the life from them, parasitic and nigh on impossible to get rid of.

He crouches by the one he tripped over, examining it. It’s so large that a person would need an ax to make a dent in it, and frankly, he’s surprised that no one has by now. At least in the case of this one, which is definitely a hazard to anyone trying to use the Prime Path.

He reaches out and pokes it, not sure what he’s expecting, and then his mind fills with

(a warmth, glowing and red and sickly and creeping and _wrong wrong wrong_ )

(a warmth, glowing and red and comforting and familiar and _right right right_ )

(s t a t i c and it h u r t s)

He jerks his hand away, trying to shout, but the sound that escapes him is more of a whine. His momentum carries him backward, and he scrambles back a bit for good measure, his eyes fixed on the vine, half-expecting it to rise up and attack him or something of the like. It does not, but it takes a moment before he feels steady enough to stand, and even then, fine tremors run through his limbs, his body breaking out in a cold sweat.

What the _hell_ was that?

He looks around, forgetting about his earlier trepidation, hoping that there is someone nearby to ask about it. But there is no one.

“Schlatt?” he calls, hating the shake in his voice. But there is no flash of blue, and no smug asshole stepping into view, so he assumes that the ghost isn’t nearby at the moment.

He lets out a breath. Runs a hand through his hair. And he keeps walking, not sure what else to do. He still doesn’t have any weapons, couldn’t do anything about that—that _thing_ , even if he tried. So he keeps walking, giving it a wide berth, and tries to calm himself down, tries to focus on seeing Tommy. Nothing is more important than that. Not the wreckage that was once his city, not the strange and slightly terrifying red vines, not the corner of his mind that is whispering for him to get out while he still can, to leave before he’s well and truly trapped here, stuck in a new lease on life that he never wanted.

( _rest rest rest if you want to rest again there’s no one to stop you yet but this is your last chance_ )

None of that matters.

Tommy’s house comes into sight a few minutes later, and he smiles to see it. In the end, it’s not much more than a hole dug into a hill, but it’s Tommy’s, and that’s always been what matters. He ducks inside, surveying the chests that line one wall, the doorway that leads to the room with the jukebox, a set of stairs leading downward. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but Tommy has never been one for it.

Tommy’s not here, though. The bed looks slept-in, and no dust gathers on the chests, so he’s been here recently, which is a relief. He probably won’t have to go hiking across the entire server looking for him. But he’s not here, and Wilbur’s not sure what to do while he’s not. Should he wait in his home? Maybe. But then, he doesn’t want to startle him too badly, and no one likes returning to their house and finding an unexpected guest, no matter who that guest might be.

He purses his lips, glancing around again. And this time, something tucked in the corner catches his eye. Its shape is familiar, and his heart leaps and stutters, but—no. It can’t be.

(he doesn’t remember whether Ghostbur had it or not but that shouldn’t mean that Tommy does, shouldn’t mean that Tommy managed to hold onto it all this time, between war and exile and war again, because that would be impossible, and even if it weren’t _why_ would he want to keep it for so long _why_ would it matter so much to him)

But it is.

He lifts his guitar with hands that have begun to shake once again. Plucks a string. It’s out of tune, but that can be fixed. It’s a miracle that it’s here in the first place.

He lets out a breath, thin and wavering. He looks around, at this home that is Tommy’s, not his. It wouldn’t feel right to wait here, not when he doesn’t have permission, not when Tommy’s not aware of him at all. So he steps outside, and takes a deep breath; the air is humid and electric, the anticipation of the rain permeating it already. The clouds have grown darker in the minutes he spent inside Tommy’s home.

He takes his guitar and heads for the bench.

It’s Tommy and Tubbo’s bench, really. But with this instrument in his hands and rain about to fall, nostalgia is is tapping out a three-four waltz in his chest. He sits gingerly, setting his guitar across his lap, his fingers already flying across the strings and frets, testing chords, turning the tuning pegs. It takes a few minutes before he’s satisfied with the sound, and by then, a drizzle has begun to fall.

Briefly, he considers going back inside, or mining a few blocks and building an awning of sorts over the bench. But there’s no point in it, really; he enchanted this guitar to _last_ a long time ago, and a bit of water won’t do a thing to it. And what can the rain possibly do to him now?

(he gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes, and the water means imprisonment and freedom all at once, and something settles inside him, something that pulses with the pattern of the raindrops)

Thunder rolls. But the rain doesn’t seem to be getting any worse than this light shower, so he strums a few chords experimentally. His fingers remember them better than he expected, because he’s not sure when he last sat down and played, truly played. Before Pogtopia, at least, and with that thought, he picks out a familiar melody.

( _i heard there was a_ )

He stops. Stares out into space. The view really is nice from here, vines notwithstanding, though he’s sure it would look better in the light of the sun. Still, there is something about the rain that soothes him, fills in a few of the shattered cracks of his soul. He feels odd, distant, and he doesn’t think it will last, but he’ll take his moments of peace when he can find them, now.

He plays a different song. Something simple, something peppy. And then something else. He doesn’t dip into his own songs, doesn’t feel quite ready to do that

(though there is a song, a symphony, waiting just beyond his hearing, and if he lets them his fingers will _fly_ )

yet, so he dips into the repertoire of songs that he knows, that he’s learned over the years, nights spent around campfires and in forests and under trees and beneath the stars and by the crackling fireplace of the house he once called home, his brothers lounging nearby and calling his playing shit, his father laughing and chiding them and watching him with a gleam of pride in his eyes, his wings tucked behind him and at rest. All of them, at rest.

He doesn’t sing. But he hums along. Quietly, at first, and then with more confidence. The sound of the rain fills his brain until it’s just about all he can hear, the rain and his guitar and his humming, and it’s as if the rest of the world has fallen away for a little while, leaving only him and this bench and the water that is slowly soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his forehead, and this rain isn’t at all like the rain from last night, really. That rain was cold and biting and it _hurt_ , really, especially in those first few moments when his skin felt so raw, so new. This rain is gentle. Like a caress, almost.

He barely notices what he’s playing. Until he settles on a song, and he is struck by the memory of playing it for Tommy when they were kids, trying to help him fall asleep. It always worked like a charm. Phil used to joke that it was a magic spell, or Tommy’s off sequence, a hack into his code. And then Tommy would scowl and call him a bitch, and Phil would laugh, and Techno would roll his eyes and claim he wanted to leave, but he never did, not really.

(until he did, that is, until he left for Hypixel and the only thing any of them knew of him for a long while afterward was what they could glean from his short messages and the newspapers announcing his wins)

He tilts his head up for a moment. His eyes are watering, but it’s the rain falling on his face. That’s all. He keeps playing, playing and humming, and

(Tommy is drifting off, his eyes sliding shut before he gets through the song, and he lets the chord fade away and his _nah nah nah_ trails into silence, and he smiles and ruffles his little brother’s hair and whispers good night)

Tommy says, “What the hell?”

( _take a sad song and make it better_ )

He hits a wrong note, his fingers spasming, and he flinches. He is suddenly very aware of himself, of the way his coat has begun sticking to him, of the water dripping down his face. The rain is coming down a bit harder now, hard enough that he perhaps should have made that awning after all. He swallows, his gaze fixed on his guitar, on the way the water evaporates when it makes contact with it, the enchantments still holding strong even after all this time.

The rain stops being a comfort. It’s just rain, now, and he feels so terribly present in this moment.

He shifts on the bench, and turns so that he can look behind him.

And it’s—

Tommy. And Tubbo, too, standing next to him. They’ve got an umbrella held between them. They’re staring at him, Tubbo in shock and Tommy—Tommy in—he doesn’t know, can’t tell

(shock yes but what else he doesn’t know is there excitement does he dare hope for happiness please let it not be horror please not anger even though he deserves it he does he knows he does)

what he’s feeling beyond the obvious surprise, and perhaps a bit of disbelief.

His fingers finally still on the strings.

“Hello, Tommy,” he says.

It’s pithy, in the face of everything. It’s weak. It’s too little, too late. It’s all he can think to say.

“What the hell,” Tubbo is saying, an echo of Tommy’s exclamation, “what the _hell_?” But Wilbur really only has eyes for Tommy, who is standing there, unmoving, unblinking, and worryingly mute. Tommy is never so silent. In the face of a challenge, in the face of something undesirable, in the face of anything unexpected, Tommy’s first instinct has always been to be loud, to shout and yell and puff himself up like a bird playing at being predator. And yet here he is, quiet. Just staring. Eyes wide.

Slowly, Wilbur puts his guitar to the side, and stands. No more words come to his mind. Getting to his feet seems to take all of his energy, all of his willpower, and then he’s glued to the spot. Frozen, his heart in his throat, beating out that traitorous rhythm. Tommy is still just _staring_ , and he wishes he would do something, anything, would rail at him or curse or step forward or run the other direction, because anything would be better than this stalemate, this thick tension that rests between the two of them. Maybe then, Wilbur would be able to find the courage to bridge the gap.

(unless the gap doesn’t want to be bridged and Tommy’s changed his mind after all, has decided that he doesn’t want the return of the man who made him a soldier and then a fugitive, who stole the remainder of his childhood away and replaced it with shadows and paranoia and enemies at every turn and the worst one of all right in front of him, who was supposed to be his brother but turned into a monster and who could blame him, really, if he decided that, if he decided that his life would be better off without such a one in it)

“Tommy—” he starts, not knowing what will come next, and his voice cracks. His voice breaks, terribly, like the word doesn’t belong in his mouth anymore, like he doesn’t have a right to say the name like he used to, and perhaps he doesn’t, after everything he’s done, and then—

“ _Wilbur_ ,” Tommy whispers, barely audible over the rain.

“It’s me,” he says. It’s a confirmation and it’s a promise and it’s an apology. He wonders if Tommy can hear it.

And then, Tommy is running, is charging straight at him, and Wilbur doesn’t have time to react before Tommy is barreling into him, taking them both to the ground, and all the breath exits his lungs with a soft _whumph_. And then, there is a fist in his face, and he sees stars, pain erupting in his nose, and he grunts. His vision clears after a moment, and Tommy’s face fills his line of sight, red and splotchy and twisted up. He’s all but sitting on his chest, making it difficult to get that air back. His fist is still raised, still poised to strike again. Wilbur’s surprised that it hasn’t.

“You bastard,” Tommy says. “You _bastard_ , what the actual hell is this, Wilbur you bastard, you can’t just—how are you even here? What are you—how are you—”

Wilbur reaches up and touches his face.

It’s an instinct, really, to touch Tommy when he gets worked up. He’s a bit like a cat, in that way; he’ll pretend until the cows come home that he doesn’t like physical comfort, that he’s too much of a big manly man to do anything more than slap someone on the shoulder, maybe, much less hug them, but as soon as contact is made, all of that flies out the window. If it’s timed right, that is, and Wilbur has had years to become a study in Tommy. So he reaches out and holds his hand against Tommy’s face, and half of it is to calm him down and half of it is for Wilbur to reassure himself that his brother is here, that he’s fine and that he’s real, because he didn’t think that it would be an issue but now that he’s here, looking at Tommy in the flesh, he can’t get the image of Tommy-in-exile out of his mind, worn down and ragged and eyes entirely devoid of life, at the end of his rope even if Ghostbur couldn’t see that, couldn’t understand the pain he was in.

( _you should have been there for him should have been there to protect him to keep him safe but you weren’t and whose fault is that and now look at him he’s grown up without you when he shouldn’t have had to grow up at all_ )

Tommy goes completely still.

“Tommy,” he says. “I am so fucking sorry.”

It’s like a dam has burst within him, and everything he’s been holding back floods him. He looks at his brother, his brother who is still a child and yet looks at him with eyes that have seen more war and death than any child should, and he is struck with the knowledge that he is the one who did this, that he is the one who planted the seeds, that Tommy went to war with him, for him, and he repaid him by isolating him and hurting him and pitting him and Techno against each other and insisting that there was no one he could trust. And perhaps he’s no Dream, but what difference does that make, in the end, when Dream would never have been able to get his hands on Tommy in the first place if it weren’t for him, for his stupid, selfish actions, for his weakness and his inability to see reality for what it was?

He broke, and Tommy paid the price for it. And now here they are.

His vision blurs. It could be the rain. It could be.

“I am so sorry,” he repeats, and it’s a struggle to get the words out, because his throat feels so thick, like it’s closing in on itself. “So sorry for everything, for—god, Tommy, for all of it, I never should’ve—”

“You’re _here_ ,” Tommy says, and Wilbur falls silent as the air is once again driven out of his lungs, this time by the full weight of his brother collapsing on his chest and clutching at his shirt, burying his face in the fabric. “You’re here, you fucking—you’re _here_.”

“I’m here,” he agrees, and he brings one hand up to rest on Tommy’s back and starts carding the other one through his hair, a motion that Tommy usually protests, but now doesn’t say a word against.

“You bastard,” Tommy mumbles. “You’re such a bitch, you—you left me, you promised you wouldn’t and then you left me, what kind of shit move was that, huh? You absolute—you complete—you stupid bitch!”

“Gremlin child,” he murmurs, and it comes out so soft and so fond and more than a little bit choked up, “I know, I know, I’m so sorry.”

“You’d better be,” Tommy says. “Fuck, Wilbur, I’m so glad you’re back.”

And that gives him pause, just for a second, a moment in which he has no idea how to respond to that, because he isn’t. Not in the broadest sense. How can he be, when the thought of the void still lingers in the back of his mind like a siren’s call, when he’s been ripped away from that peace and shoved into a body that feels everything too sharply, too keenly?

He’s not glad for that.

(he’d escape, if he could, he thinks, but he can’t _afford_ to think on it too long, can’t afford to let that longing settle into his skin, especially not now and not here)

But Tommy can’t know that. He decides it right then and there: Tommy can’t know that. He’s been through so much already; he shouldn’t have to deal with Wilbur’s shit on top of all of it. Shouldn’t have to know that he doesn’t want to be here at all. That he meant it when he told him he didn’t want to be brought back. That he still means it. That he’s not here by choice, no matter how good it is to see his brother again.

Tommy can’t know that. Tommy can’t know that, because it would hurt him, and Wilbur knows that he is not a good person, that he hasn’t been for a long time, but he’ll be damned before he hurts his little brother again.

So, Tommy can’t know.

It’s easier than it should be, to pull together a quick facade. A bit of a mask, a bit of a farce, a bit of a lie, just enough to give the impression that he’s less damaged than he knows he is. He can be broken in private. Tommy shouldn’t have to deal with that. Shouldn’t have to see it.

(he dragged Tommy down with him once)

(never again)

“Me too,” he says,

(and it’s a lie, a lie, a lie, twisted and poisonous on his tongue, tasting of ash and gunpowder)

and smiles.

Tommy pulls away from him, enough to look him in the eyes. His face is blotchy, but Wilbur doesn’t comment on it.

“You’re not upset?” he demands.

“Why would I be upset?” he asks.

“I mean, earlier,” Tommy says. “You do remember that, right? When we talked? And you said you didn’t—you didn’t want to come back? I thought you’d be upset about it.”

“I remember,” he says. “It’s alright. I’m just glad to see you.”

(the question: how many half-truths can he tell?)

(the answer: as many as it takes, and never mind the fallout)

“Yeah?” Tommy says.

“Yeah,” Wilbur replies.

“Well then,” Tommy says, and then, he suddenly seems to realize the position that they’re in, Wilbur sprawled on the wet grass and Tommy half-lying, half-sitting on top of him. Tommy clears his throat, and his next motion is to awkwardly climb off of him, dusting off his pants and looking away awkwardly as if to pretend that none of that just happened. It’s typical, really; Tommy’s always been allergic to overt displays of affection. That much, at least, hasn’t changed.

He sighs, sitting up himself. And then finally remembers that Tubbo is here, too. Has been the whole time, standing there uncomfortably, white-knuckling his grip on the umbrella. He makes eye contact, and there, in Tubbo’s eyes, is the wariness that he was expecting to find in Tommy, that he was surprised not to see.

“Hello, Tubbo,” he says quietly.

“Hi, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. A bit short, a bit cold; not hostile, but not precisely welcoming, either.

“I owe you an apology as well,” he says. “A lot of them, really. I’m sorry for what I did.”

The expression that passes across Tubbo’s face is unmistakably one of surprise. Is it the apology itself? Or was he not expecting Wilbur to apologize to him, specifically?

“You’ll understand if I can’t quite forgive you,” Tubbo says, and Wilbur nods.

(Schlatt grinning on the stage and he knows, he _knows_ that Techno will be unable to withstand this kind of pressure, knows that what Schlatt demands, he will be given, and there is a boy in a box shaking and begging, a boy that Wilbur has known since he followed Tommy home one day, all those years ago, a boy in a box, a sacrificial lamb, and Wilbur turns aside and doesn’t waver at the sound of his scream)

“Of course,” he says, and stands himself. The rain is letting up a bit, and he casts a glance back at his guitar, still sitting on the bench.

“Have you just been sat out here in the rain?” Tommy asks. “Why didn’t you just wait inside? How long have you been here, anyway?”

“Here? I don’t know. It hasn’t been too long,” he says absently. He picks up his guitar again, though he makes no move to play it, holding it loosely at his side. “I thought the rain felt nice.”

“You thought the rain felt _nice_ —”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Wilbur,” Tubbo interrupts, “but how exactly are you back?”

And that—that draws him up short.

Because for the question to be asked like that implies that Tubbo doesn’t know, which means that whatever Tommy did, or got Dream to do, Tubbo wasn’t told. Which makes no sense; Tommy tells Tubbo everything. That’s just the way of the world. And when he looks to Tommy, Tommy is watching him with a curious expression, like he’s interested in the answer too, and that doesn’t make any sense, because Tommy had to have at least known that something had happened, because if he didn’t, that means—

( _how many strings does the puppeteer have?_ )

“I thought,” he starts, and he can’t keep the dread from his voice, “I thought that I should be asking you that question. Since you said that Dream could resurrect me. I thought you got him to do something.”

There is silence for a very long time.

“I’ve been to visit a couple of times,” Tommy says quietly. “The prison, I mean. I hadn’t asked him about it yet. I’ve—I’ve been thinking about what you said a lot. And I wanted you back, so I was probably going to bring it up at some point, but I wanted to be—I wanted to try to be smart about it. I didn’t want the bastard to get one over me. And uh, that thing you said about Schlatt, I didn’t want that to happen, either. So uh, I haven’t actually spoken to Dream about it.”

“Wait, but that doesn’t make any sense,” Tubbo says. “Dream’s got a book, yeah? That Schlatt had? That’s how he knows how to do it, right? But he doesn’t have that in prison, so how could he have done anything?”

He tries not to let his reaction show on his face. But his eyes dart around, seeking out blue, trying to see if Schlatt is around to hear this. He doesn’t see anything, though that doesn’t necessarily say much.

Should he mention Schlatt? Or would that just make things worse?

“I woke up in a forest,” he says. “That’s literally all I know. I woke up in a forest, and it was fucking cold, and I was fucking alive. Beyond that, I’ve got nothing.” He pauses, gauging Tommy’s reaction, and decides to save Schlatt for another time. As well as the fact that he spent the night at Techno’s. All of that can wait until Tommy looks a little less—fragile isn’t quite the right word to use, or at least, it shouldn’t be, because Tommy has been many things but fragile has never been one of them. But there is a brittleness about him, and Wilbur can’t help but be afraid that if he says the wrong thing, if he steps wrongly, Tommy might snap. Might break into little pieces. Or might not, might fracture on the inside and pretend that nothing is wrong, might pull away and refuse to let anyone help him because he thinks he doesn’t need it, or worse, that he doesn’t deserve it—

“We’re going to have to go speak to him, aren’t we,” Tommy states, and yes, yes they are, Wilbur would love nothing more than to see the green bastard face to face and put his fist right through his teeth and wring out an explanation for himself, but—

Tommy’s eyes are hooded. He’s trying to hide it, trying not to let it show. But he’s tense. Like he’s expecting a blow.

(he rages, boils from the inside out, but he can do nothing because there is no one here to fight. no one here to blame. Dream is not here. Schlatt is not here)

(there is no one but himself)

“Yes,” Wilbur says, “but I don’t see why we’d need to right now. We can wait a bit.”

He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want to wait at all. He wants to march down to the prison right now and demand his answers. But the poorly concealed relief on Tommy’s face makes it worth it.

(there is something in him screaming that it doesn’t matter, that this is more important, that Tommy can be a bit uncomfortable if it gets him what he wants, that there is a bigger picture to worry about and they are all ants caught up in a flood, but no, no, no, he sacrificed Tommy to this voice once and he won’t do it again he won’t he’s going to be _better_ )

“Yeah, let’s make that bitch sweat for a while,” Tommy says, all bluster, but it’s comforting in its familiarity. “I bet he’s just waiting on us to come and ask him about it. Bitch has got another thing coming.” He grins, sharp and wild, and Wilbur almost takes a step back, because how long has it been since that expression was directed at him?

(the scene: the results are in and they’ve got a majority, and Tommy is whooping and hollering and Wilbur hates himself for giving him false hope, because he’s got the results in his hand and they should have won but he’s about to have to crush that infectious joy of his, and there’s really no way to do it gently, so he waits just one more second, one more second for his brother to be happy, and then he speaks and the smile slides off Tommy’s face like chalk washed away in the rain)

Too long.

So when he speaks, his voice is entirely too soft.

“I feel like I’ve missed a lot,” he says, and it’s an obvious non-sequitur but he doesn’t care. “Would you like to catch me up?”

And Tommy grins and grins and grins, and he knows he’s made the right choice when Tommy slings an arm around his shoulder and starts talking his ear off, and Tubbo rolls his eyes but follows along with them, and it feels so good and so right and he’s missed this, he has. If life were made of only moments like these, perhaps he would be able to be happy to be here.

For now, being happy in the moment will have to be enough.

“So I’ve got to ask, you don’t feel particularly like blowing anything up at the moment, do you?”

“Tubbo, that’s so fucking rude—”

It stings, the reminder, but it’s deserved. So he smiles, and he answers, and above them, the rain stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that sure ended nicely! I'm sure nothing bad at all is going to happen! They've definitely talked about everything they need to talk about, and avoiding their issues isn't at all going to come back to bite them!
> 
> :)
> 
> Also, the song that Wilbur was singing to Tommy is 'Hey Jude.' It was a big comfort song for me in my childhood, so I am possibly indulging just a little bit.
> 
> If you enjoyed, feel free to comment! Or just scream at me, that's fine too!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Five: In which they go and visit Dream in prison, and everyone is just as unhappy about it as you might think.


	5. hide your soul out of his reach (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Tommy's stuck with Dream in prison, Ranboo's leaving coded messages in his inventory, he and Tubbo are platonically married, and Philza Minecraft is canonically centuries old. It sure has been a week, huh.
> 
> In light of all the lore stuff that's been happening lately, this seems like a good place to put a reminder that unless it shows up, you shouldn't assume that any events or lore drops from after the Jan. 20th finale are canon for this fic. (Except for c!Phil being functionally immortal bc that's exactly my brand of angst and I'm so using it.)
> 
> Also, you will probably notice that they... uh. Don't actually talk to Dream this chapter. That's because what used to be one chapter got turned into two, because it literally took them 4k words just to get to the cell, so. Go figure.
> 
> Content warnings for swearing, references to past child abuse (regarding c!Tommy).

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m what?”

His response is automatic, comes spilling out before he truly registers that someone has spoken to him, much less who it is. So when he looks up and locks gazes with Schlatt, the annoyance bubbles up quickly. He’d been sitting quietly, in a relatively secluded area near Tommy’s house, thinking about nothing in particular and everything all at once, and he’d felt settled. Peaceful. His mind quiet.

So much for that.

“I thought you’d fucked off somewhere,” he says.

“And deprive you of my company?” Schlatt shoots back. “You wound me.”

“I wish I could,” he mutters. He glances away, staring off into middle space, hoping that maybe, Schlatt will go away if he pretends very hard that he doesn’t see him. No such luck, and he sighs. “What am I stalling about?”

“Dream,” Schlatt supplies. He strides closer, then kicks off into the air, drifting aimlessly in a seated position. The sweater still looks odd. Too soft, when the man in front of him is anything but. “You said you were gonna go see him.”

“And I am. Just not yet.”

Schlatt snorts. “What’s keeping you?”

He frowns. Meets Schlatt’s eyes again, and finds no sympathy there. A bit of hard amusement, at best. Not that he was expecting anything else.

“Tommy’s going to want to come with me, when I go,” he says. “But I don’t want him near Dream.”

Schlatt makes a sound that’s more mocking than understanding. “Right, Tommy,” he says. “Where is the kid? I’m surprised he left you alone in the first place.”

“Tubbo went back to his town. Snowchester, I think they said it was called.” There is an undefinable melancholy that fills him at the thought. Even now, after everything, they are still trying to make a home. Still trying to carve some corner out of the world and make it theirs. Or Tubbo is, at least. He’s no longer quite sure what Tommy wants. “Tommy went with him.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shakes his head. Tubbo said that there were other people who lived in Snowchester, when he asked. Jack Manifold, for one. Maybe a couple of others. Captain Puffy, maybe? Either way, to go with them would have been to invite the possibility of meeting people, and every cell in his body cringes away from that idea. He’s not ready for that just yet. If ever.

( _you’ll have to face them eventually, will have to stand your ground against the hatred in their eyes, burning and so well-deserved, shattered fractals of a people you used to belong to and did your best to destroy_ )

( _you’ll have to face them eventually, and yet you hide_ )

“Tommy said he’d be back later,” he says. “He doesn’t live there. In Snowchester.”

“So here you are, waiting for him.”

“I suppose.” He frowns, shifting in place where he’s sitting on the ground. He brushes his fingers against the grass, absently pulling up a flower or two. “It’s not as if there’s not time. We can wait until Tommy’s not quite so—” He trails off here, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Not quite so what? Not quite so traumatized? Trauma doesn’t work like that, doesn’t go away within the span of a few days or weeks. He knows as much, though he used to be content enough to ignore it

(when he was the one causing it)

back in the old days, when there was no choice otherwise, when there was no chance of _rest_.

“Well, aren’t you considerate,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur looks at him sharply, because that was definitely snide. Schlatt stares right back, brows lifted, smirking. “Waiting for your little brother to be a little less broken. How kind of you.”

He bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’ll talk about him however I want,” Schlatt says. “What are you gonna do, shout at me? Play some shitty music? Please. But all I’m saying is that a few days isn’t gonna make a difference, and you know it. You’re stalling to make yourself feel better, to try and convince yourself that _you’re_ better now, that you’re not gonna hurt him anymore.”

His mouth goes dry. “I’m not—” He shakes his head again, as if trying to dislodge the idea. “It doesn’t matter right now, anyway,” he says. “He’s in Snowchester. He’s not here. There’s nothing to do until he gets back.”

“Oh my god, just comm him,” Schlatt says. “Tell him you’re going over to the prison. Do it now, and you can leave before he decides to go with. Win win.”

“I don’t—” He furrows his brow. He doesn’t have his comm. He’s not sure where his comm is. Except—

For the first time, he thinks to check the pockets of his coat. The first couple turn up nothing, but then, in the third, his fingers wrap around a sheet of thin, hard plastic. He freezes for a moment, and then draws the communicator out, holding it loosely in his hand. A tap on the screen, and it lights up, just the way he’s used to.

It doesn’t make sense for him to have this.

Schlatt leans over his shoulder and whistles.

“Daddy’s worried about you,” he says, and Wilbur blinks, pulling up his unread messages. There shouldn’t be any, shouldn’t be any at all, because he can count the number of people who knows that he’s back on one hand. And yet, there is one, and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at the identity of the sender, but he is.

_Philza whispers to you: don’t mean to be pushy but could you let me know you made it to smp lands safe?_

He has to read the message several times before its meaning sinks in, and once it does, he’s not sure how to feel about it. It doesn’t particularly read like Phil wrote it; it’s too hesitant, too apologetic. But Wilbur remembers what Phil looked like, standing in that kitchen, wingless and so very cautious, flinching away from his words as if they were physical blows. And in the end, letting him go, even though it was plain as day that he would have liked nothing more than to keep him there.

He’s angry with Phil. For a lot of reasons. But then, he’s angry at the world, too. Angry at himself, most of all.

(and there is so much of him that just wants someone else to swoop in and fix things, just wants his dad to make everything better in a way that he hasn’t since he was a kid and the first fracture formed, splitting their family apart, and as much as he is angry there is a large part of him that just wants to go back to that house and sink into his father’s arms and learn how to call a place home again)

“You gonna answer?” Schlatt asks.

He ignores him, checking the timestamp. It was sent a few hours after he left the tundra. So, a couple of days ago, now, and there have been no messages since. Perhaps it’s no longer relevant.

He hesitates, eyes tracing over _don’t mean to be pushy_.

It feels so strange, for Phil to qualify a sentence like that. Like he’s unsure of his welcome. And perhaps he’s right to be.

_You whisper to Philza: I’m safe._

“Touching,” Schlatt says dryly. He scowls, trying to bat him on the arm or push him away or do _something_ , but his hand goes through, and Schlatt just smirks some more for his efforts. “Now do Tommy.”

He puts the comm down on his lap, turning to face Schlatt fully. “Why are you being so fucking insistent?” he demands. “You’re a ghost, you can go by yourself. Through the walls and shit, since apparently you get actual ghost powers.” Ghostbur didn’t get ghost powers. He recalls that very clearly, because Ghostbur was immensely disappointed by this. For once, he agrees with the shade.

“And do what, look at him? Like it’s a fucking zoo? Watch him twiddle his thumbs and chuckle evilly to himself? Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Schlatt says. “I don’t know if you forgot, but nobody can see me. Hell, for all you know, I’m not even real. You could be making me up.”

He tries to brush the comment off. It hits just a bit too close to home

(whispers in shadows and enemies around every corner, people watching and staring and plotting against him, and no one else can see, Tommy can’t see, but that’s alright, he sees enough for both of them, and he will have his victory, and if he cannot have that, then nobody can and there is laughter, laughter, laughter)

for his comfort.

“If I were making you up,” he says, “I would simply stop.”

“Cute,” Schlatt says. “Do you wanna know what your problem is? Your problem is that you’re scared of people seeing you for what you really are.”

His hands clench.

“You say you don’t want to hurt Tommy? Fine. I even believe you,” Schlatt continues. “But don’t act like you’ve come back to life and suddenly you’re some saint. You’re fooling yourself, Wilbur. People like us don’t change. You can put on as much of a shine on the outside as you want, but scratch that paint off, and you’re still the power-hungry asshole who blew up a city as a hissy fit.”

His mouth works for a second, wordless.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and scoops up his comm again.

_You whisper to TommyInnit: I’d like to visit the prison today_

“Was that so hard?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he says again. “And fuck off. Or I swear to god I’ll figure out a way to exorcise you.”

“Please do,” Schlatt says. “I’d thank you for it. But sure, have it your way.” He shrugs, looking completely unconcerned. “I’m never too far.” Then, he disappears, and there is a shimmer of blue in the air, and even that fades away, and Wilbur is left alone and feeling no better for it.

“It wasn’t a fucking hissy fit,” he says to the empty space. There’s no one left to hear him, no one left to justify himself to, but

(it wasn’t a hissy fit it was desperation and fear and wild abandon and a surging, terrible victory and a fire in his chest driving him onward and he relished in it, relished in the freedom and the power and the control and he was the villain, he was the villain and he was good at it, he was the villain and he loved it, he was the villain and everyone else paid the price and he didn’t pay at all so what happens now, what happens to the villain back from the grave what _happens_ )

he’s not wrong. Not about this.

_TommyInnit whispers to you: ok_

_TommyInnit whispers to you: i’ll be back soon_

_TommyInnit whispers to you: dont leave without me or your a bitch_

* * *

He doesn’t leave without him.

He should. Should venture on to the prison by himself, to spare his brother the effort. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t bring himself to go it alone. Perhaps it really is pathetic, but he wants to have someone by his side when he starts revealing himself to the rest of the server.

It’s certainly selfish. But he’s never claimed not to be.

They don’t meet anyone on the way. Wilbur doesn’t understand why, not when the sun is shining brightly and they’re walking the established path, matching each other stride for stride,

( _there was a time when he would have walked behind you, would have trailed on your coattails, would have looked to you for direction and guidance and look at him now, look at who he has been made into, a child who should not have to be as grown as he is but there is no changing it now and he really is someone to be proud of, isn’t he?_ )

but they run into nobody, and those vines are fucking everywhere.

“Why hasn’t anyone cleared these?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re a fucking eyesore.”

Tommy snorts. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says. “They’re ugly as hell. But there’s this Egg thing, see, that BadBoyHalo and a couple of others are all constantly going on about, and those vines come from it, I think. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally. I mean, it’s just an Egg. Can’t be all that great. But BadBoyHalo swears by it.” He pauses. “Well, he doesn’t swear. He says muffin by it, I suppose. Still can’t get him to swear.”

“An egg,” he says, and then frowns. “An Egg,” he repeats, and there’s a difference in the way he’s saying it, in the strange emphasis that implies the capital letter. “That’s—vines don’t come out of eggs. They’re not—vines don’t hatch, and eggs aren’t fucking plants.” And then, he remembers— “Techno told me about an egg. Said he thought it was some kind of cult. He didn’t know much else.”

Too late, he realizes what he’s said, and catches the way that Tommy stiffens.

“You’ve been to see Technoblade, then,” he says, and his voice is far too casual to actually be casual. He winces.

“When I—woke up,” he says, “I was really near the tundra. And I remembered where he lived, from when Ghostbur would visit. And I thought that maybe—”

“I mean, you don’t need to explain it,” Tommy interrupts, but his tone of voice tells Wilbur that actually, he really does need to explain it, because there is undoubtedly a note of hurt there, and that won’t do.

“No, no, I do,” he says. “I know you’re not exactly good with each other right now. I’m not really good with him either. But I woke up and it was raining and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and I made a list, see? And number one on that list was to get to you. But I was cold and wet and I had no idea what was happening in the SMP because Ghostbur’s memories are patchy as hell, so I thought that Techno could tell me some things so I wouldn’t go in blind and walk into—I don’t know, a nuclear war or something.”

Tommy makes an odd sound at that, like a cross between a cat having a hairball and someone choking on water gone down the wrong pipe. “Nuclear war,” he repeats, in a voice that’s a bit strangled, and his words seem to trip over each other in his rush to get them out. “Right. Yeah, no, none of that here. Nope. No way that could ever happen. Uh, yeah, no, that makes perfect sense.” He stops, and Wilbur is about to ask what the actual hell that was about, when he speaks up again. “Is he—I mean, how is he? Still a fucking crazy arsehole?”

Wilbur looks at him. Tommy does not look back. In fact, he seems to be making a point of looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Still an arsehole. Same old Techno, you know him. Phil, too.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Tommy’s shoulders relax at that, just fractionally.

“Right, yeah,” he says. “Good to hear.”

“Tommy—” he starts, and is saved from having to figure out what he’s going to say, because suddenly, he sees it. The prison. There’s no way that it could be anything else. And he has to stop and stare for a long moment, because he’s never seen a build like that before. Not on any server he’s ever lived on. He’s seen some impressive buildings in his life, and he’d like to think that he’s made a few himself,

(walls to keep them safe to protect them and hold them dear and he hasn’t seen Fundy yet, has he?)

but nothing compares to this.

“Who built this?” he breathes. He feels claustrophobic just looking at it, dark walls towering over them, looming, intimidating.

“Sam did,” Tommy says. “He’s the warden, too. But Dream commissioned him, which is what makes it so fucking funny.”

He feels a grin spread across his face.

“Wait,” he says, “Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison?”

“Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison!” Tommy whoops, and just like that, he’s laughing, and they both are, and maybe he can do this after all. He follows Tommy’s footsteps as he leads him to the doorway, to an empty room with a portal frame, and he’s sizing it up, trying to figure out how they’re supposed to get through, when Tommy steps forward.

“Sam?” he calls out. “You here?” And then, to Wilbur: “Sam’s kind of a dick when he’s got the whole warden thing going on, but he’s pretty nice when he’s not working. He’s been a good friend, you’ll like him. Later, I mean. When he’s not being a dick.” And then again: “Sam? Sam, we want to visit Dream!”

“You don’t need to yell, Tommy. I’m right here,” someone says, and there is another person in the room, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tense because he didn’t see him come in. “I wasn’t expecting—” And then the man stops, staring right at Wilbur, and Wilbur is left to size him up and rack his brain as to whether or not he’s formally met Awesamdude before. He’s been on the server for a while, he knows. Was around for L’Manberg, was a part of the Badlands, was neutral. He’s met him before. He’s almost certain he’s met him before. But there’s no spark of recognition in him, looking at this man, with his full netherite armor and the mask covering the lower half of his face and the green patches that dot his skin.

“Wilbur Soot,” Sam eventually says. “I would assume? Not Ghostbur?”

He regains himself. Inclines his head. “You’d be right,” he says, and then he steps forward, taking his place at Tommy’s side, and he extends a hand. “Sorry, I’m not sure that we ever really got the chance to meet.”

Sam takes his hand, showing only a bit of hesitance. His grip is firm.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” Sam says. “I’m not sure if it is or not.”

“You know what?” Wilbur says. “That’s fair.”

“Hm,” Sam says, and it’s hardly approval. But Wilbur is very aware of the fact that they’re standing in the entrance of a prison, a prison that is supposedly inescapable, and that he has definitely, by the standards of the server, committed at least one crime. And what’s more than that, he doesn’t particularly regret it. Not the act itself. The effects it had, maybe. The pain it brought. But in his heart of hearts, he is glad that L’Manberg is gone.

So really, the fact that he isn’t being arrested is a win.

(he thinks, he wonders, what would he do if he was, if he was locked away in the dark and the walls loomed all around him and the sun was a distant memory and _ah_ , he thinks, _no, I would rather die_ , and then the imagined prison becomes Pogtopia, shadowy and dank and every sound echoing off the stone, melancholy and abandoned, and he wonders what it looks like now, now that there is no life in it at all, and he wonders if it is haunted with the ghost of who he used to be, if he left some important part of him behind to shrivel into dust)

“So, I assume this is a recent development?” Sam asks. He’s being very calm about this, which Wilbur appreciates. But then, they were never close. Were never connected personally. The real tests still lie ahead.

“Couple of days,” Tommy says cheerily. “We’re taking it slow.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” Sam says, and Wilbur blinks, because it’s a joke. Someone feels familiar enough with Tommy to make the comment, and likes him well enough to make it playful.

That’s—good? He thinks it’s good? Probably? Yes. Good. Tommy has friends. Good.

( _he doesn’t need you. not really. he wants you, for some godforsaken reason. but he doesn’t need you_ )

“Oi, I can be slow,” Tommy says. “I can be the very slowest. I am excellent at being slow, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Wilbur says, and Tommy gapes at him, looking back and forth between them with a dawning expression of betrayal.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, stabbing a finger at both of them. “I didn’t introduce you so that you could go ganging up on me. That’s just not right. I changed my mind, Wilbur, you’re not allowed to like Sam. None of this bullshit.”

Wilbur laughs, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed at all. He’s ribbing his little brother, and there’s even someone else here for support, and it’s not Techno, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. The motions are familiar, the words an old pattern.

“You’re here to see Dream, right?” Sam says, and just like that, the illusion shatters. And the smile is gone from Tommy’s face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.” He hesitates. “We can both go in together, right? Because I’ll tell you right now, nothing else is going to work. We’re a package deal, me and Wil are.”

Sam tilts his head. “No one’s ever tried to visit with someone else,” he says. “I don’t see an issue with it, as long as you both pass security.”

This is relieving. But Wilbur’s a bit more concerned with the way that Tommy’s hands have begun to shake. Just slightly, barely enough to see.

“Good,” Tommy says. “Wilbur, there’s so much security, it’s honestly ridiculous. There’s a bunch of checkpoints and lava and you have to put all your stuff in a locker and get splashed with potions, and oh! There’s wavers, too, you’re going to have to sign a bunch of shit.”

“Great,” he says. It’s not great. It sounds nerve-wracking, in fact. But if Tommy can do it, so can he; he’s just a bit worried that Tommy can’t do it. Or rather, not that he can’t do it, since he’s done it before, apparently. Just that maybe, he really, really doesn’t want to do it. That maybe, it will not be very good for him to do it. That maybe, he’s putting himself through this for Wilbur’s sake, and hasn’t Wilbur just established that he doesn’t want to hurt Tommy anymore?

(but the past echoes forward into the future and there’s no way around it now)

But they’re here, and he’s not going to be able to get Tommy to turn back, and he’s not sure that he would even if he could, because his nerves are all shot and he doesn’t want to be in this dark prison without an ally. So Sam guides them through the checkpoints, and there are indeed a lot of wavers, and a lot of splash potions, and Tommy has to put all of his things in a locker. Wilbur pulls up his inventory, certain that he doesn’t have anything on him, still, but he’s not entirely right about that; he must have kept the flowers he was pulling up earlier, because he’s got about five cornflowers in one of the slots.

He puts them in a chest, and ignores the startled look that Tommy shoots him when he sees. He’s not sure what that’s about. They’re just flowers.

The walls are too close. The shadows too dark. The crackle of lava too near. Tommy is putting on a front, chatting _at_ Sam more than he is _with_ him, and to his credit, Sam puts up with it with easy acceptance. But Wilbur knows that a front is all it is, because his smiles don’t reach his eyes, and he knows how Tommy sounds when he’s talking for the sake of hearing his own voice.

This may, perhaps, be a mistake.

( _you can’t let him near Tommy don’t let him near Tommy not after what he did to Tommy don’t you know can’t you remember how can you be letting this happen after what he did Tommy shouldn’t be anywhere near here but now he is and you brought him and what kind of a brother are you_ )

But he has questions he needs to ask. And he hasn’t forgotten his list. His goals.

If there is anything he can do on this server to make it better, after everything he’s done, let it be this.

“Alright,” Sam says, “call for me when you want to leave. Make sure to walk with the bridge.”

And then the curtain of lava falls, and there is a moving platform, and Tommy is deathly still by his side, and there is the cell, and there, in the cell—

Dream.

He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. A prisoner’s outfit. But he’s kept his mask, stark-white and smiling and laced with spiderweb-thin cracks. His mouth is visible, canting upward into a slight smile, one that mimics the black paint. He stands at their approach, and then they’re stepping into the cell, and Wilbur lets his hand land on Tommy’s shoulder, to steady him and to steady himself.

“Oh, fuck,” someone says, and it’s not him, and it’s not Tommy, and it’s not Dream, and it sounds faint and far away. The living aren’t the only ones in this cell, then. He hopes that Schlatt has the good sense not to be too distracting.

Dream takes a step forward. Under his hand, Tommy stiffens.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you.” It’s directed at Tommy and Tommy alone, like Wilbur’s not even there at all, Dream’s mask tilted toward toward him, toward the kid that he manipulated and abused, and Tommy is trembling and Dream has _no fucking right_ to address him like that, so soft and friendly, and Wilbur—

—sees red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream next week guys, I promise. Hopefully there were enough interesting character moments to make up for it. I will say that there was one line of dialogue this chapter that I'm setting up to come back in a big way down the road, and I'm very excited about it.
> 
> Also! I wanted to let you guys know that I've caved in and decided to make a tumblr sideblog for dsmp-related stuff. So you can now find me [here, @onecanonlife!](https://onecanonlife.tumblr.com/) Posting fic on tumblr is a bit like shouting into the void these days, but I also reblog stuff and post reactions to streams every now and again, and any ficlets that I write that I decide aren't long enough to post on ao3 will end up over there as well. So feel free to stop by and hang out, or chat, or ask me things, or scream at me! Anything goes!
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments, you guys, I appreciate it so much!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Six: In which the conversation with Dream actually happens, and it goes about as well as could be expected.


	6. hide your soul out of his reach (ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been just. Too much. So, welcome to your weekly dose of canon divergence, where things still kind of suck but not like _that_ , jfc
> 
> Also rip any hope of Tommy and Wilbur having a good relationship canonically lol. I am choosing to look away. I do not see it
> 
> Y'all really, really wanted to see Wilbur fight Dream, and honestly, mood. I hope this chapter is satisfying!
> 
> Content warnings for swearing, violence, blood, choking, attempted murder, and Dream's entire everything, so some manipulation and references to past abuse.

Most people never think to guess that he is Technoblade’s brother.

There is a reason for that, of course; they are both adopted, for one thing, and they look nothing alike, which is why he used to like to say that they were twins. It was always funny, to watch Techno roll his eyes and get all exasperated and try once again to explain to him that _that’s not how twins work, Wilbur_ , and it would always make him feel warm inside, because no matter his irritation, Techno never quite got around to saying that they’re _not_.

But whether by blood or no, he is Technoblade’s brother, and he has something of the Blade in him, something of his simmering rage, something of his inclination toward violence, the urge for blood howling in his soul, screaming at him to protect what is his.

And so.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you,” and Wilbur is moving without having given himself permission to do so, a wordless snarl curling in the back of his throat. For a moment, he forgets where he is, forgets what he’s here for, forgets who he has at his side. His attention is focused on one thing and one thing only, and he launches himself forward, and the sudden sting in his knuckles as they impact porcelain is nothing in the face of the grunt that Dream lets out, surprised and pained. A _crack_ rings through the room, and he withdraws his hand to see a new break in Dream’s mask, a new fracture, and nothing is so satisfying as the knowledge that he put it there.

Dream is staggering back, seeking to regain his balance. Wilbur regards him for a moment, his head strangely clear, and then decides not to let him.

They go down in a heap, Dream’s head bouncing off the hard obsidian floor with a gratifying _thunk_. Wilbur lands squarely on top of him, and his fist flies once, twice, three times. Into his mask, over and over, and the cracks widen, and the mask is _breaking_ , and he wants to see it shattered, wants to see it come to pieces—

There is someone saying something, someone shouting. He’s not paying attention. They can wait.

Because then, Dream starts to laugh.

And the thing about it is, it doesn’t sound like what Wilbur _knows_ his laugh is, that wheezing tea kettle noise that everyone always made fun of him for.

(gentle teasing, back in the old days, back when they were all friends, when this server was a safe place, a good community, back before it all went wrong, and perhaps he should wonder what happened to make _that_ Dream into the monster that he is now, but he hurt Tommy and he _doesn’t care_ )

Instead, it’s quiet and low and steady, and there is a smugness to it, a superiority even under the breathlessness, as if this is where he wants to be, as if everything is going according to plan, some plan of his, going right even though Wilbur is sitting on his chest and doing his level best to beat his face in, and—

How dare he have the nerve

(how dare he have the _nerve_ )

to laugh

(to laugh when he’s just destroyed everything around him)

after all that he’s done

(and leveled the very thing that he fought so hard to reclaim _but if he cannot have it nobody can_ and he laughs for the joy of it, the terrible, terrible joy)

to everyone, to the server, to _Tommy_?

He made a list, when he woke up. He made a list. And he’s accomplished the first goal. He’s found Tommy. And his mind is separating, splitting in half, and one half has control of his body and one is watching from the outside, and the one with his body takes his hands and puts them to Dream’s throat. He can feel his pulse, rabbit-quick. His skin is warm to the touch.

He presses down, and Dream stops laughing.

The half of him that is watching begins to scream with a voice that sounds like his father’s. Begins to shout, asks him,

( _can you kill a man in cold blood?_ )

and the answer is

( _yes_ )

because he knows what monsters are, knows that he has one pinned beneath him, and he knows that he is one too, and only a monster can kill another monster. He will suffocate the life from him, and the world will be better for it. He will suffocate the life from him, and Tommy will be safe.

It’s one of the easiest decisions he’s ever made.

But someone is still shouting, shouting words that enter one ear and rattle around in his skull and fade away without making any kind of sense, and he ignores them. Except then, he can’t, because there are hands on his shoulders, hands trying to pull him back and away, and he resists them, doubles down, places more pressure on his stranglehold, because he wants Dream _gone_ and he wants Dream _dead_ and he’s not going to stop until he’s paid in full—

“—bur, _please_!”

But Tommy sounds scared.

Like a rubber band released, he comes back together again. His grip goes slack. He allows Tommy to pull him off.

“You can’t—” Tommy is saying, is babbling, and he has tears in his eyes, and it doesn’t make sense for him to be crying, because Dream was the one who hurt him, so he should want Dream gone, right? “Wil, you can’t, you can’t kill him, we need him, we need to talk to him, and he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve to die, Wil, he doesn’t, so you can’t—”

“Doesn’t he?” he asks, and is surprised by the hollowness of his own voice.

Tommy falls completely silent. For a long minute, the only sound in the cell is Dream wheezing, coughing, struggling for air.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, and he sounds so miserable that Wilbur regrets asking the question. “Maybe. I mean, I think about stabbing him every time I see him. But I—I don’t want him dead, alright? He’s in prison, and he can’t hurt anyone anymore. So I don’t want him to die.”

_He hurt you,_ Wilbur doesn’t say. _He’s still hurting you._

Because Tommy is pale and trembling, his hands shaking where they’re still gripping Wilbur’s shoulders. Because there is a waver in his voice that is wrong, that doesn’t belong, that Wilbur has heard only a handful of times before. Because sometimes, Wilbur will look at him, and his eyes will be far too old, older than any sixteen-year-old’s should be, and part of that is on him, he knows, he _knows_ , but Dream is responsible for so much of the rest.

“I don’t want him to die,” Tommy repeats, and Wilbur realizes that he’s been silent for too long, that Tommy must have taken it as disagreement. “And I don’t want you to kill him, okay? Not like—not like this.”

He’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean.

He opens his mouth, and no sound comes out. So he clears his throat and tries again, and he’s not sure why he’s so hoarse, since he wasn’t the one being strangled, but his voice is a croak.

“Fine,” he says. “But you can’t—if he so much as looks at you wrong, I’m not about to fucking hold back. You get that, right? I’m not letting him—I wasn’t there when it counted. So I’m gonna make it count now. I’m doing my damnedest to make it count now. So if he does anything, I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting him do shit.”

Tommy’s hands tighten. For a second, Wilbur thinks he sees tears in his eyes, but then he blinks, and they’re gone, so perhaps it was his imagination. He has to think it was his imagination, because otherwise he’s going to lose his mind. Because Tommy doesn’t cry. Almost never cries. And if he cries now, it’s either because Wilbur’s fucked up massively, which is bad, or it’s because Wilbur has done something right but it’s overwhelming him because he’s not _used_ to things going right, which would be worse. So much worse.

“Okay,” Tommy says. “Yeah. I—thanks, Wilbur.”

“Not to interrupt,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur flinches with his entire body. He’d forgotten that Schlatt was here, and now Tommy’s looking at him in confusion, and now is not the time for this. Now is definitely not the time for this. Schlatt is over by the entrance, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare turn to look. That’s too obvious. “Because this is very touching and I’m real happy for you, but he’s up again.”

He draws in a breath. And looks past Tommy. Dream is on his feet.

He exhales.

“I won’t kill you,” he says, and his voice is far cooler, far steadier than he feels, “because Tommy doesn’t want me to. That’s it. That’s what’s keeping you alive right now.” And he stands, and Tommy stands with him, shifting to be at his side rather than in front of him.

Dream inclines his head. “I get it,” he says, and Wilbur feels a vicious spark of delight at how terrible he sounds. “Thank you, Tommy.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tommy snaps. “I’m not doing it for your sake. You great green bastard.”

“It’s been pretty boring since the last time you visited,” Dream continues, as if he hadn’t spoken, and if Wilbur couldn’t hear the evidence in his voice, he would assume that the last few minutes hadn’t happened, either. Since when was Dream this unflappable? That’s not the Dream that he remembers.

(he remembers more than one Dream. he remembers the Dream who invited them to his server, who offered them a home and friends, who played war games with Tommy and Tubbo but was always so very gentle with them, who was considerate and funny and someone Wilbur was glad to call a friend. he remembers the Dream who fought against the independence of L’Manberg, cunning and bitter and angry and _loud_ about it. he remembers the Dream who sided with Pogtopia, who always sounded as though he was smiling, laughing at all of them, like they were all a great joke whose punchline had yet to be told. he remembers the Dream who gave him the TNT, who told him to blow them all sky high, and the way his blood sang in anticipation in return and Dream knew, then, he knew what Wilbur was planning, he could tell by that damn _smile_ )

(Ghostbur remembers the Dream of Tommy’s exile. but Ghostbur didn’t know any better than to like him, and he can’t trust memories that are colored by that)

“Tough shit,” Tommy says, more confident now, and if he thinks he has the lead on this, Wilbur’s content to let him take it. “We’ve got questions and you’re going to answer them.”

“What makes you think I have answers?” Dream asks, and—

Is he always this purposefully obtuse?

He glances at Tommy’s face, takes in the frustration written there, the resignation. Apparently so.

“If you don’t think you can help us, then we’ll just leave,” Tommy says, and it’s an odd statement, but apparently, Tommy knows what he’s doing, because Dream takes a step forward. Just one, though, and Wilbur would like to think that he knows better than to get any closer.

“I can help,” he says. “I’m glad you came to me. What’s the question?”

Silence falls for a moment. Tommy’s eyebrows go up, and Wilbur chances a glance back at Schlatt. He’s still hovering near the entrance, by the lava, and its glow permeates through his figure, a bit, rendering him translucent. His eyes are narrow, fixed on Dream.

At least he’s taking it seriously.

“Right,” Tommy says. “You’re going to make me spell it out, then. You said you could bring back Wilbur. That’s pretty much the whole reason why we left you with your third life. But, and I don’t know if you noticed this, but here he is, see? So how the fuck did you do something from in here, or if it wasn’t you, who the hell was it?”

“I did notice, actually,” Dream says, more than a bit wryly. “Hi, Wilbur, by the way. Nice to see you again.”

“I think that you should drown yourself in your sink,” Wilbur replies with an easy smile.

“So, that’s the question?” Dream says, ignoring him once again. “You want to know how I did it?”

“And why,” Tommy puts in. “Why would be good to know too, since I didn’t ask you to. You know.”

“I do know,” Dream agrees. “I have to say, I was kind of surprised at that. I thought you wanted your brother back?”

Tommy sputters. “Wha—of course I do! Did,” he tacks on, with a sidelong glance at Wilbur. “Uh, ‘cause I don’t have to anymore, because he’s here. Look, could we stay on track?”

“Sure, sure,” Dream says. “I mean, I’m not sure exactly how much I can tell you. Resurrection's a tricky business, you know. Lots of moving parts. And you get it if I don’t want to give away all my secrets. Do you want anything to eat? I can’t give you much in the way of variety, but I thought I’d offer.”

There’s something about this that Wilbur doesn’t like.

“No, we don’t want your fucking—your fucking raw potatoes,” Tommy says. “That’s disgusting, and you are a sad, pathetic man because that’s all you have to eat. Wilbur, isn’t he a sad, pathetic man?”

He nods absently. He should be chiming in. He shouldn’t be making Tommy do all the work, shouldn’t be making Tommy confront Dream himself. But there is something creeping over his mind, a nameless dread, stealing his words. And under that, a realization, one that makes no sense at all but that he is increasingly certain is right.

“You’re saying that like I have a choice,” Dream protests, sounding so mild, so even-keel, and it’s _wrong_ , there’s something _wrong_ with this picture. “Potatoes is all I’m given. Maybe if you talked to Sam and got him to give me something else, but unless you do that, it’s potatoes all the way.”

“I’m not getting you things,” Tommy says. “We’re not friends. You need to stop talking like we’re friends. We’re not friends, I don’t like you, I don’t like who I am around you, and I’m not talking to Sam about your fucking potatoes, Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, okay, but you can’t complain about the food when I try to give you some—”

They keep bickering. Wilbur’s only paying half of his attention to the conversation, only enough to make sure Dream doesn’t try to pull anything too terrible. The rest of him is frantically working, thinking, trying to puzzle out why this is pinging as so very _off_.

“I’m a good businessman, Wilbur,” Schlatt mutters, and Wilbur jumps, because he is right by his ear, the fucking stealthy ghost bastard. “I know stall tactics when I see them.”

“He’s stalling?” he asks, and only realizes his mistake when both Tommy and Dream look at him. But Schlatt is right; Dream is stalling, has been going out of his way to change the subject and goad Tommy into an argument, and that means— “You’re stalling. You’ve got no fucking clue what’s going on, do you?”

Dream laughs. “Oh, come on now,” he starts, but Wilbur’s got his number now, and he’s not going to allow him space to breathe or to spin a lie.

“No,” he presses, “none of that. No potatoes, no fucking with Tommy’s head, no games. I’m not playing games. You would’ve been so quick to gloat, if you had been the one to do this. So quick to hold it over our heads. And even if you hadn’t, but you knew who did, you would’ve dangled that information in front of us like a, a fucking carrot on a stick. Instead you’re rambling about your food and trying to pick a fight. You didn’t know I was alive until I stepped foot in this cell, did you?”

Dream is silent. His mouth is thin. There is a stream of blood slowly trickling out from under his mask.

“Holy shit,” Tommy says. “Holy shit. You bastard.”

“Well then,” Wilbur says, “I think we’re done here. Tommy, do you think we’re done here?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “Yeah, I think we are.”

He turns to call out to Sam, to tell him that they’re ready to leave, but there are footsteps, and he wheels around again to see that Dream has moved closer, far too close for his liking and far too close to Tommy.

(there is something)

“Okay, maybe I don’t know why Wilbur’s back,” he says, “but don’t you think that’s concerning? It could’ve been anything, with any goals. I could help you figure it out.”

Tommy winces, and Wilbur once again feels the urge to drive his fist into Dream’s face, to put his hands around his neck and squeeze. He refrains, if only because of the look that it put on Tommy’s face the last time, the fear it put in his voice.

(there is something very wrong)

“We don’t need your help,” Wilbur jumps in before Tommy can answer.

“Right, yeah, we don’t—Sam! Sam, we’re ready to go!” Tommy calls.

“You say that _now_ ,” Dream says scornfully. For a second, Wilbur fears that he’s going to try to come forward more, to make an attempt to get out when Sam comes for them. But instead, he stands where he is, crossing his arms. “I know things about this server that no one else does. You need me.”

“We need you like we need a heart attack,” Tommy snaps. Beside him, Schlatt mutters something inaudible.

“Maybe you do,” Dream says, and then, inexplicably, his tone lightens. “I hope you visit again. I like seeing you. And this is the first time I’ve had so many visitors at once, so this was fun. We should do it another time.”

“I think that you should shut up and stop talking now,” Wilbur says, eyeing the lava as it continues to flow over the entrance. Is it taking too long? How many seconds has it been? Sam is there, isn’t he?

“Well, you three are always welcome to come back,” Dream says. “I’ll be here. Unless I’m not.”

Wilbur’s blood runs cold.

( _can you see it?_ )

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tommy demands. “You’ve got nowhere else to go. You’re going to be staying in here for the rest of your sorry fucking existence, and I’ll come back here to tell you all about all the fun things you’re missing out on because you decided to be a fucking dickhead toward all of the people that used to care about. How’s that, then?”

“As long as you visit,” Dream says mildly. He’s smiling. There is blood on his lips.

“He’s looking at me,” Schlatt whispers. “He’s looking at me, Wilbur, oh god oh fuck he is looking right at me, how the fuck is he—”

Dream tilts his head. Schlatt cuts off, making a choked sound.

“I’m still the admin of this server,” Dream says. “Putting me in a box doesn’t change that. So if you’ve got more questions, I’m happy to answer them whenever.” His smile broadens. “Not just about this, too. If the Egg ever starts being a problem, feel free to come to me. Not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

Finally, _finally_ , the lava curtain drops. Sam is standing on the other side, entirely too far away, and the platform is approaching, entirely too slowly. Wilbur feels locked in place, mind ringing out with _three, three, three_. He shouldn’t know that. He should have no way to know that, admin or not. He shouldn’t—so how does he—?

( _look closer look closer do you see it do you see it do you see there’s something wrong with_ )

“The Egg?” Tommy asks, and the platform is here. Tommy hesitates, clearly torn between staying and following this new line of questioning, and going. But then, he shakes his head vigorously. “No. No, we’re not doing this. Goodbye, Dream.” He strides out onto the platform.

Wilbur lingers a moment. Schlatt has disappeared.

Dream is staring at him. He can’t see his eyes, but he knows, deep in his soul, that they are boring into his.

So he turns on his heel and joins Tommy on the platform. It begins to move, and he can’t help the glance back over his shoulder. Dream is still there. Unmoving. And if he does make a motion, he doesn’t do it until they are across, until the lava has dropped back down, masking him from sight.

* * *

The pressure in his chest lifts as they step outside. He sucks in a deep breath, relishing the fresh air in his lungs, air that is bright and clean and smells of grass rather than hard stone and the bitter heat of lava. The sun is bright in the sky, and he has to blink a few times to readjust to the light.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” Sam says.

“He’s a dickhead,” Tommy says, oddly quiet. “Didn’t really expect much.”

“Well, I’ll let you know if he says anything to me,” Sam says, and then winces. “Anything relevant, anyway. He talks a lot.”

Tommy snorts, looking away. “Tell me about it,” he says, and his demeanor is definitely strange, subdued. He seems better, less fidgety than when they were inside, but still not at ease. “Or don’t, actually. I don’t want to hear about what that sick, sick man tells you.”

“Probably for the best,” Sam agrees, and then turns to him. “It was nice seeing you, Wilbur. Welcome back to life, I guess.”

There are a multitude of ways he could respond to that. _Thank you_ would be easiest, would be what’s expected. Part of him wants to answer with something snarky, something sarcastic, something that reveals just how much he appreciates being here, but he won’t do that, not with Tommy standing right there. He’s trying to be positive. Trying to be better, trying to at least pretend to be happy. For him. He needs to keep to that, especially now, after whatever the fuck that was in there. So, _thank you_ it is, then, and he opens his mouth to say it, except what actually comes out is, “He can’t get out of there, can he?”

Sam is silent for a long moment. His face does something that Wilbur can’t quite interpret, not with the mask covering half of it, but his eyes go a little wider, his brows a little more furrowed. It’s almost like understanding, or perhaps pity, and Wilbur doesn’t like either option. He doesn’t want to be understood, not really, doesn’t want people to think they understand him before he expressly allows them to, and he has no use for pity.

(villains are not meant for pity, and he still has Dream’s blood on his knuckles)

“No,” Sam says. “As long as I live, he will never set foot outside this prison.”

He says it with such conviction that Wilbur has to believe him. But somehow, it doesn’t set him much at ease. He can’t stop thinking about it, what Dream said, what he implied that he saw, the way he stared, motionless and intent and predatory, in a way, even though he was weaponless and armorless and subsisting off of raw potatoes. He should hold no power, be no threat, and yet, Wilbur can’t make himself relax.

“Alright. Thank you, Sam,” he says. Sam nods.

“Of course,” he says. And then, he’s stepping away, heading back into those dark walls, to that swirling portal that opens for none but who the warden wishes. And then, he is gone.

“Right then,” Tommy says, after a beat of silence. “Home?”

“Yeah,” he says, and feels exhaustion settle in, that constant companion.

So they do. They go home. They run into no one on the way, once again, and Tommy notices his confusion about it this time and tells him that no one truly lives in the area anymore, not since L’Manberg’s third and final destruction, and Tommy says it in such an offhand way that he doesn’t have a good response to it. Doesn’t have a good response to the way he seems to accept its loss, as if it was inevitable, only natural that everyone should have up and left the area, and it’s true that Wilbur wanted the nation gone but he never wanted Tommy to suffer for it, not really.

(though he didn’t care who suffered in the end, in that room covered in buttons, his anthem, that glorious song scraped into the walls, the music crescendoing with the explosion and then the ringing, blissful silence)

(no, he didn’t care who suffered, by the end)

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say much, not until they’re back at Tommy’s house, the hole he dug out in the side of the hill and has made his own. He doesn’t know what to say, all of his old charisma failing him, so he watches Tommy for a little while as he knocks about his chests and goes to harvest a few carrots and rants about things that have been happening on the server lately, little things, minor things, things that conspicuously don’t involve Dream at all.

“Tommy,” he finally manages, “are you alright?”

Tommy stops where he is. “Course I am,” he says. “Wilbur, I’m a very big man, you know. It’s going to take more than one green bastard to unsettle TommyInnit.”

“It’s alright if he unsettles you,” he says. “Prime knows he unsettled the hell out of me.”

Tommy stares at him, and then looks away and into the chest he’s got open.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time, “I know.”

Wilbur waits.

“It’s just that—” Tommy says, “It’s just that I hate him, so much, and I hate what he does to me. He gets in my head so easily, even when I know to expect it. He’s so good at fucking with me, and I can’t stop him. And I tell myself, each time I go, that this’ll be the last time, this’ll be the time I put it all behind me, but then it’s a couple of weeks later and I go back again, because I think part of me misses him. How fucked up is that? I know exactly what he is, and part of me still wants to think he’s my friend.”

He says it all vehemently, but so very softly, like he’s trying not to hear it himself.

“It is fucked up,” he agrees, matching Tommy’s tone. “But that’s not your fault. It’s his.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry I made you go with me. I shouldn’t have.”

Tommy wheels on him, eyes suddenly blazing, and he slams the chest lid closed.

“You didn’t make me do shit,” he snaps. “Nobody makes me do shit. I do what I want. And I wouldn’t have felt any better if I knew that you were in there with him alone. Think that would’ve been worse, actually, so shut the fuck up about it.”

“I—” he starts, and then stops. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He needs to be better about this. Needs to be better about remembering that Tommy is more than capable of making his own decisions. He is a child still, and ought to be protected, but he doesn’t need coddling, doesn’t need babying. There is a fine line between those things, and it is a difficult one to walk.

“Of course I’m right,” Tommy says. “I’m always incredibly correct. You should stop apologizing so much, though, it’s weird. Or wait, actually, do it some more, tell me all about how I am very right and you, Wilbur Soot, are very wrong and dumb.”

It’s an obvious ploy to lighten the mood. He can’t bring himself to go along with it.

“Why did you stop me?” he asks. “Actually, though. Not because he didn’t deserve it or some shit. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Tommy scowls, his shoulders tensing.

“And what if I do?” he says. “Maybe he does deserve it. Doesn’t mean it should happen. I told you, I want to stab him really bad, but that doesn’t mean I do it. It wouldn’t be fair. Or very satisfying.” He crosses his arms, and for a moment, the image of him in the present is juxtaposed over a younger Tommy, in the exact same pose, arguing with Techno or Phil or him over some stupid, childish thing. Wilbur blinks, and the image is gone. “Besides, we did need him. To talk, that is, even if he turned out to be fucking useless.”

Alright, he can believe that.

(but he sounded so very scared, and)

“Did I scare you?” he blurts out. He regrets the words instantly, but he can’t take them back. “With what I did?”

He’s expecting Tommy to answer with a resounding denial, no matter what the truth actually is. He’s not expecting him to flinch.

(they are in that dark ravine and Tommy is conspiring with traitors and he’s screaming at him, half angry and half desperate to make him understand, to keep him on his side, to get him to see that they have each other and no one else, that no one else can be trusted, he’s screaming and he takes another step forward and he’s not expecting him to flinch)

“You didn’t see the look on your face,” Tommy says. “It reminded me—”

He cuts off, but Wilbur is capable of reading between the lines.

“I’m sorry,” he says, somewhat helplessly.

“You are better, right?” Tommy says. “I mean, really, you don’t—you don’t feel like you did back then, right?”

He’s trying to keep it casual, like it’s not a big deal, like he’s not desperately searching for the answer as to whether or not Wilbur is still insane.

Wilbur’s heart is doing something strange. Something that hurts. Or perhaps that’s just guilt.

“I am,” he says, “I am, I swear. I just—I saw him, and I couldn’t hold back. I know that how I was—how I was then, I don’t understand how you don’t hate me for it, but I look back, and I know now. I do. I’m sor—”

“I don’t need you to apologize again,” Tommy cuts him off. “I—I am actually very fucking sick of apologies, I’ll have you know. But I never hated you, Wilbur. I was really angry, after you—after you went and _did_ that, but I didn’t hate you, and then I was sad, and I just wanted you back. The real you. And I was upset and angry because I knew I could never have that. Except I do now, right?”

“You do,” Wilbur says, because there is no other way he could possibly respond to that. “I swear, you do.” And he opens his arms, and after a second of hesitation, Tommy comes over and sits on the bed next to him, and slumps into his embrace, and Wilbur holds him against his chest because it’s all he can do.

(all he can do to hold him like this and hide from him that the darkness is not gone, that there is something in him that still calls for the destruction of everything and everyone for no reason other than _why not_ , something in him that wants to pour oil over the world and light the match and take himself along with it, something in him that has broken once and will do so again, at the slightest provocation, something as fragile as a sheet of glass already cracked or a bird’s wing once fractured from the fall and never healed right)

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been,” he says, ignoring Tommy’s request for no more apologies, ignoring the fact that wishes and could-have-beens and what-ifs are useful to exactly nobody. “Ghostbur wasn’t exactly a great help, I know—”

“Oi,” Tommy says, pulling away to look him in the face, “don’t insult Ghostbur. He was doing the best he could. Maybe he didn’t really understand a lot, but he was there. Even when nobody else really was. He was—he was better than nothing, you know? He tried to make people happy. So don’t make fun of him.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t,” he says, and for some reason, thinks about the flowers he still has. He’s not sure why he kept them, why he bothered to retrieve them from the locker at all. But he did, and he has them, and they’re the only thing in his inventory at all. Cornflowers. Blue.

( _he tried to make people happy_ but he failed, didn’t he, so how much could he possibly have mattered? he failed in a different way from Wilbur-when-living, but he failed all the same, and that is another thing they have in common, loathe though he is to admit it)

Tommy seems content with this, and he leans forward again with a sigh.

“We’re gonna have to go check out that Egg, aren’t we?” he mutters into Wilbur’s shirt.

“What makes you say that?”

“Dream mentioned it,” Tommy says. “I hate letting him yank me around. But he could be involved with it, maybe. Could be trying to—to hatch something, or something like that. I wouldn’t put it past him. So we’ve got to go see what the thing is all about.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that _you_ have to do anything,” Wilbur says. “You deserve a break. You don’t have to play hero.”

“I’m not playing hero,” Tommy murmurs. “I am a big damn hero. Never really got a choice in that, did I?” He pulls back again, letting Wilbur get a good look at the way his eyes have begun to droop. It’s no wonder; it’s been an exhausting day, even if it’s only late afternoon. It’s a good thing, really, because that means he doesn’t quite notice the twisted expression that Wilbur is sure is on his face. “No, but there are people I want to protect. My friends. Like Tubbo. And Sam. So we should go see the Egg and make sure it’s not gonna hurt them.”

Wilbur looks at him, at this child who has gone through more than any child should and has come out the other side still standing, still determined to help his friends, still loyal to a fault, and he wonders how he could ever have suspected him of turning against him. How he ever could have managed to fuck up with him so badly.

“Okay,” he says softly. “We can go see the Egg.”

_Never again,_ he thinks. _I swear to you, I’m not fucking up again_. And ignores the dread that’s pooling in his heart.

They’ll go visit the Egg. Assuage their curiosity. And then, finally, perhaps, some peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of Wilbur and Tommy's conversation the morning before the revival stream, so any parallels and direct refutations of things that c!Tommy said about what c!Wilbur is currently like in canon are coincidental. But I mean, I probably would've done it on purpose if I'd written it later. I just want them to be brothers, man...
> 
> My tumblr is [here](https://onecanonlife.tumblr.com/)! Shorter ficlets that I write have a tendency not to migrate over to ao3, so if you'd be interested in drabbles that I've been writing in reaction to canon events, feel free to stop by! Or just to hang out!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Seven: In which, due to the fact that none of them really know what the Egg does, nobody considers that maybe putting it and Wilbur in the same room is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Also, Ranboo puts in his first appearance, and that bit goes pretty okay.


	7. feet in the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you guys ready... for the e g g?
> 
> Content warnings for swearing, minor violence, manipulation/mind control, blood, vomiting, and explicit suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Really, though, do mind those warnings. Shit's about to get a bit intense.

A new day dawns, as per usual.

Tommy and Tubbo are waiting for him when he steps outside, shielding his eyes against the sun. They’ve got their heads tilted together, discussing something in hushed tones, Tommy gesticulating wildly, and he takes a moment to stop and smile at them. It’s just like when they were kids, the both of them getting into one mischief or another. Tommy was always the one to be blamed for it, but Wilbur knows better than to think that Tubbo doesn’t instigate his own fair share of chaos. It’s hidden better, but they’re two peas in a pod, in the end.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks, the words coming easily. Today is a good day, he thinks. He feels good, better than he has since his return. The darkness has receded, and his heart almost feels light. He can almost forget about the scar that runs across it.

They both jump, heads swiveling toward him.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, at the exact same time as Tubbo says, “Good morning!” He glances between the two of them, and feels his lips curl upward into a smile once again. It feels easy, to be smiling with them.

“As long as I’m not the victim,” he says, and Tubbo shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says, “see, we were thinking about the Egg, right? And how it’s just, like, an egg. And we assume that it’s red, because of all of the vines, but we’ve never seen it, so we don’t actually know how big it is. I think that it’s a great big egg, because all these vines are big and thick.”

“And _I_ think,” Tommy interjects, “that there’s no way that these vines are coming from the actual Egg itself, because vines don’t hatch out of eggs. So I think that it’s a regular-sized egg, and they’ve got it on a pedestal or something like that, or a, an egg throne. But it’s gonna look so fucking stupid, because it’s literally just a little egg, and we should smash it with something and see what they do about it.”

He hesitates. “I’ve got to go with Tubbo on this one,” he says. “I don’t think it’s going to be a regular egg.”

“Psh, you don’t know,” Tommy says. “You’re dumb. Oh!” His face brightens. “I forgot, Tubbo brought you some things.”

He lifts an eyebrow and takes a few steps forward, and something in his chest warms at the way Tubbo doesn’t tense up like he did the first day, doesn’t flinch back. There is still wariness in his eyes, but he doesn’t think he’s mistaking the way that it’s lessened.

He hardly deserves it. But today is a good day, and he’ll take it for the moment.

“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “Tommy’s still dirt poor, so he asked me to do it, but here’s some gear. We thought you should have something.”

Tommy is sputtering at the description, but Tubbo ignores him. He opens up his inventory, and then takes out—gear. A couple of swords, shimmering with enchantments, a bow, an axe, a pickaxe. Wilbur feels something in him loosen just looking at them; he hadn’t realized how vulnerable he’d felt, being weaponless, and that’s probably a bit fucked up, actually. He didn’t always feel the need to keep a weapon on him at all times.

( _you led child soldiers to battle when you were little more than a child yourself and can you really feel surprised, at the way the metal hums in your hand, now, the way your fingers are more secure wrapped around the hilt of a sword than the neck of your guitar?_ )

( _you learned to play such different songs, the blood bright and accented in your eyes, every scream a crescendo_ )

He glances up, checking to be sure that Tubbo really does intend these for him. Tubbo nods, so he crouches down to inspect the weapons, now all laying on the grass.

“I’ve got armor too,” Tubbo says, “but I wasn’t sure that you’d want it.”

And doesn’t that carry a wealth of connotations, of memories? There is a sharpness to the words along with the question, and Wilbur

( _my L’Manberg, my L’Manberg, a promise of safety you never could keep_ )

turns it over in his mind, poking at it.

“No armor, thank you,” he says. “I never did like it all that much. I’ll let you know if that changes. Thank you for these, though.” He gathers up the weapons, choosing a sword to wear at his waist and sliding the rest of them one by one into his inventory, and then glances up again to catalog their reactions. Tubbo seems to have expected the answer, but Tommy is frowning at him, and he has to wonder if he’s remembering something else, remembering

(the last time he refused armor, he was intending to die, had written himself off as lost, lost along with his symphony, the only possible redemption in the press of a button, the lighting of a match, and Tommy didn’t know it then but hindsight is twenty-twenty and Tommy has always been too smart for his own good)

the wars and what followed.

Tommy sees him looking, and his expression smooths over.

“Alright boys,” he crows, as if nothing at all had happened. “Egg time!”

Tubbo snorts. “Egg time,” he agrees, and Wilbur stands.

“Egg time,” he says, and then they’re off.

The day really is pleasant, a cool breeze blowing and not a cloud in the sky. Tommy and Tubbo fill the air with aimless chatter and bickering, and he chimes in sometimes and doesn’t even feel strange about doing so. This feels natural, feels right, and if he can have more days like this, days that put a spring in his step and a gentle tune in his ears, he thinks that being alive won’t be such a chore after all. Perhaps he can even learn to be thankful for it, well and truly.

He thinks that would be nice. To love life again. It’s a distant, glimmering possibility, but today it seems a bit nearer.

“It’s under Bad’s mansion, I think,” Tubbo is saying. “But they made another entrance, I’m pretty sure. Should be somewhere around—”

“Hey, Tubbo!” a voice calls. “Hey, Tommy!”

And it is a new voice. Not Tommy or Tubbo. Not Sam. A new voice, and that means a new person, and Wilbur can’t prevent the way all his muscles go taut, can’t prevent himself from fingering the hilt of his gifted sword. It’s partially a leftover instinct from the war and partially his own fear, his own aversion to being seen by anyone, to being forced into a confrontation.

He wasn’t always like this. He used to delight in speaking to people, or in a good debate, twisting his opponent’s words all around into Gordian knots until he has his victory. He’s not sure that that part of him will ever return, will ever fully recover from

( _the world is against you and you are alone and you can trust no one for they will shake your hand with a smile in their eyes and stab you in the back as soon as you forget yourself and turn_ )

those dark days, the days that took his charisma and twisted it into spite and paranoia and manipulation. Words that once were sweet drip down bitter-sharp, or shrivel on his tongue before they can breathe at all.

“Huh—oh!” Tubbo says. “It’s just Ranboo, Wilbur, don’t worry. Ranboo!”

Tubbo can see his stress, then, and that’s bad enough. He doesn’t need anyone else bearing witness to it. But Tubbo is already calling out and waving, and there is someone approaching them from off to the side of the path, someone very, very tall, half their skin pitch black and the other half stark white, a small golden crown perched in their hair. And Wilbur thinks, _I have no fucking clue who this is_ , and a split second later, he thinks, _Oh, it’s Ranboo_ , and the cognitive dissonance threatens to overwhelm him before he figures out its source.

He has never met this guy in his life. But Ghostbur did. Ghostbur—liked him? He’s fairly certain. Ghostbur liked everyone, of course, but they bonded, he’s pretty sure. Over memory problems? Ranboo has memory problems? That seems right?

What a mess.

“Hi,” Ranboo says. “Feels like it’s been a while. Oh, hey Gho—ostbur?” His voice trails off on the last word, going up about an octave and a half, suddenly very uncertain.

What does he remember about Ranboo? Soft-spoken, he thinks. Kind. Generally pretty nervous. A sardonic sense of humor, if you can get to it, one that made Ghostbur laugh. That’s all he can come up with. He was with Tubbo’s L’Manberg, but he doesn’t know what happened to him after—well. After.

He steps forward, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Not really,” he says. “Alivebur is more accurate.” He pauses. “Please just call me Wilbur, though. It’s nice to meet you. In the flesh, that is.”

Ranboo’s eyes widen. He’s not making eye contact, fixing his gaze just to Wilbur’s left instead, and—ah. That’s right. Enderman.

“Wow,” Ranboo says. “Uh, yeah! Nice to meet you too, I guess? Um, has this been a thing, or…?”

“Recent development,” Tubbo says. “We’re taking it slow.”

He feels like he should object to that phrasing. It makes him sound a bit like he’s… in their _care_ or something like that, though he supposes that’s not entirely inaccurate. He’s hardly made strides to go and do anything by himself.

“Oh,” Ranboo says. He pauses. “Well, that’s cool. Do you know how?” He seems to regret the question immediately, holding his hands up in front of him, placating. “Not that you have to tell me or anything! But it’s just, I was there when Phil tried to resurrect you that one time, I don’t know if you remember. And it didn’t really seem to work?”

“You’re fine,” he says. “We don’t really know. We’re rolling with it.”

“That’s fair,” Ranboo says, and there is a moment of awkward silence. Wilbur can tell that he wants to ask something else, but he refrains, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Um, so I was just at the spider spawner. Needed to fix some armor. What are you guys up to?”

“We want to see the Egg,” Tommy says. “Have you seen the Egg, Ranboo?”

“The Egg?” Ranboo repeats. “You mean the one with the, uh—” He gestures around them, presumably at the vines that sprawl across the ground nearby. “No, I haven’t seen it. I don’t really want to, if I’m entirely honest. Kind of creepy, how people are fawning over it. I mean, it’s just an egg. Presumably. So I’m not really interested in getting involved.”

“We’re going to draw stuff all over it if it’s small,” Tommy says. “I’ve decided that just now.”

“Oh?” Ranboo says, and then doesn’t seem to know where to go with it.

“You could come with us if you wanted,” Tubbo says, but Ranboo shakes his head.

“Nah, I should be getting home. I have to feed Enderchest,” he says. “It was nice seeing you guys, though. And you, Wilbur. Um, welcome back to life, I guess?” He hesitates. “I gotta ask, does Phil know? Because we’re neighbors, and I was wondering if I should say anything about it or not.”

“You’re neighbors?” Wilbur asks, and looks at Ranboo in a new light. Young, anxious, in need of a secure place to stay once L’Manberg was destroyed—huh. That fits the bill. That fits the bill exactly. This is the type of kid that he can see Phil getting attached to.

(his heart’s always been too big for his own good, too soft despite all the years he’s lived, though he has to wonder why Ranboo is allowed a place and not Tommy, not the child he took in as his own years and years ago)

(it’s a matter of betrayal, perhaps, perceived on both sides, and which is right, he doesn’t know)

(he’s not going to tell Tommy that he’s not angry about L’Manberg’s destruction, because that might be a betrayal in and of itself)

“Huh,” he says, instead of voicing any of his thoughts aloud. “No, Phil knows, I’ve seen him. Him and Techno both.”

“Okay, good to know,” Ranboo says, and he really does look relieved. “Good luck with the Egg.”

“See you around, Ranboo,” Tubbo says. “You should stop by Snowchester sometime.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” Ranboo says, and then with a slight wave and a bit of a smile, he’s walking off along the path. Wilbur stares after him for a moment, which is why he sees how he stops and pulls out a book after he’s gone a few dozen meters and begins rapidly scribbling in it.

His memory book. He remembers that.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tubbo says. They start walking again, and then they leave the path and start crossing the grass. The vines become thicker, more frequent. Something about them fills him with a sense of unease. Probably their color; outside of the nether, nothing is quite that shade of red, a dark crimson that reminds him of nothing so much as blood. Not dried blood, not the color it gets when it’s caked on like rust,

(coating his sleeves and he didn’t clean them so the blood is still there and he can smell it and the sword is in his hand and the stains are never going to come out)

but rather, it’s as if it’s frozen in time, still glistening, ready to flow again when the force holding it back gives way.

“I remember Ranboo,” he says absently. “Sort of. Ghostbur liked him. Though I guess that’s not really an accomplishment.”

And then, they’re at a short structure built into the earth, a ladder leading down. He peers over the edge, and can just barely make out a pool of water at the bottom, intended to break a fall.

“The spawner’s down there,” Tubbo says. “But I’m pretty sure there’s a tunnel that connects it to underneath Bad’s mansion, and that’s where the Egg is. Are we ready?”

“Of course we’re ready,” Tommy scoffs. He’s grinning, bright and wild. It’s the promise of adventure, Wilbur supposes, excitement without too much danger. Something new to discover, perhaps a new prank to play. His enthusiasm is infectious, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to join in fully. The sun is still shining, but something heavy weighs on him now, something that he can’t place. It’s the vines, he thinks, their unsettling nature, and he can’t bring himself to be sure that this will be without risk.

But Tommy’s on the ladder. Tubbo’s got one leg over the side, preparing to follow. There’s nowhere to go but down.

They make it without incident, and the sound of at least a hundred spiders hits his ears as soon as his feet touch the ground. He winces, trying to ignore the skittering and shrieking, but it’s impossible to do so entirely. But Tubbo is right—there are several tunnels leading out of this room, and there is a fuzzy red glow emanating from one of them. He exchanges glances with Tommy, who is still grinning, and with Tubbo, who has a smile on his face. Neither of them think this could go wrong, then. He should probably trust to that. He’s been alive again for all of five days. They know the server better than he does, at the moment.

They descend. He keeps his hand near the hilt of his sword.

He wishes Schlatt were here, just a little bit. His presence would be irritating, but reassuring. Reassuring to have another adult here, little help though he would be. Reassuring to have someone who could make fun of the situation, distract him from his mounting sense of dread. But he hasn’t seen Schlatt since yesterday, since he vanished from the prison, and he

(isn’t worried, not one bit)

can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing. It’s not like anyone else can see him, not like he can touch anything. So how is he occupying his time?

It’s warm down here.

The heat is stifling, humid, like a swamp, almost, but worse, because there are fumes as well, and that acrid scent that comes hand in hand with lava. As they enter the main chamber, it is easy enough to see why: there are patches of lava and molten rock all across the floor, and vines hang down from the ceiling and cover nearly every square inch of space. The floor itself is obsidian, he notices. And there, in the corner—

It can only be the egg. He can’t tell how tall it is, can barely see it though the clusters of vines dangling in front of him. But it is very large, and very red, and beside him, Tommy mutters a curse. Too big to vandalize quickly and hightail it out, but frankly, Wilbur feels as though that’s the least of their problems.

“That _is_ a big egg,” Tubbo says. He sounds impressed.

“I’ve seen bigger,” Tommy grumbles, stepping further into the room. He almost trips over one of the vines, and he shoots a scowl at his feet.

“No you have not,” Tubbo says. “Where have you seen a bigger egg?”

“I—” Tommy stops. “C’mon, let’s go look at it.”

“No, no, I want to know where you’ve seen a bigger egg,” Tubbo presses, even as they walk forward, picking their way through the room carefully. “Wilbur, back me up, where has Tommy seen a bigger egg?”

“Maybe he laid one,” he replies, and that response makes no sense at all, but he can’t be bothered to put in the effort. The closer they get, the more his mind is screaming at him

( _get out get out get out_ )

that something isn’t right about this, that they’ve made a mistake in coming down here, and there is a corner of his brain that is filling with static, buzzing and distracting and uncomfortable. And then they’re standing right in front of it, and that feeling multiplies tenfold.

The Egg is several times his height and even wider across, and it is a shade of red that is unparalleled even by its vines. It is a shade of red that seems to move, that seems to scream, that seems to drip and ooze into the air. It almost looks as though it is made of blood itself, as if he could put out a hand and stick it right though, and he almost tries it before he balks at the idea, every instinct he has rejecting the urge.

No. This Egg is not for touching.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Tubbo murmurs after a moment. His ears lie flat against his head.

“It’s just an egg,” Tommy says. “Don’t be a pussy. Wil, what do you think?”

Wilbur opens his mouth and finds that he cannot reply.

“Do you think I could break a piece off?” Tommy asks. “Like a souvenir?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” someone says, and Wilbur jerks violently, his sword half unsheathed before he’s given himself permission for the action.

BadBoyHalo. It’s BadBoyHalo, only not, not Bad as Wilbur remembers him, because his face has taken on an ashen grey pallor, and his capillaries spread out like a web across his face, and they are the same white as his eyes. The same stark white, but somehow sickly, and blood shouldn’t be that color, blood should not be _white_ , and Bad’s face itself looks gaunt and shadowed, half-starved, and his smile, once so kind and genial, is something predatory, something threatening. Bad is a demon, but he has never been a monster, and now Wilbur isn’t so sure that there isn’t a terrible thing peering at him out of those white, blank eyes, a terrible thing that isn’t Bad at all.

Antfrost stands beside him, and Antfrost’s eyes are red instead of blue.

“Hi Tommy, Tubbo,” Bad says. His voice is chipper, pleasant, and yet— “Hi, Wilbur! I didn’t realize that you were back! Have you come to see the Egg?”

Should Bad be this blasé about his appearance? He doesn’t think so. They were never friends.

(and even his friends were not his friends, by the end)

“Yeah, we wanted to check it out,” Tubbo says.

“That’s great,” Bad says. “Visitors are always welcome. It’s a fantastic egg, isn’t it?”

The question is searching, probing. He’s looking for a specific answer. Wilbur thinks that it would be a bad idea to give him the wrong one.

“I mean, it’s very big,” Tommy says.

“It is, it is,” Bad agrees, nodding amiably. “Are you liking it so far? I mean, are you having fun?”

Wilbur opens his mouth, intending to say _yes_ , intending to say _it’s the best egg in all the world_ , intending to say anything and everything that Bad so clearly wants to hear if only it will get them out of here sooner. But his mind is filled with static and he is too slow to the mark, so it is Tommy that answers.

“It’s fine, I guess,” he says. “Your decorations are shit, though. It’s too crowded down here. If I were a decorating expert, which I am, I’d say that you might try to clear some of this out, you know?”

“That’s—an interesting suggestion, Tommy,” Bad says, and his smile is much more strained. He doesn’t bother to hide it. It’s like a thin gash in his face. “I’ll bear that in mind.” He tilts his head. “I like it like this, though. I think it really gives life to the room. And we wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt it.”

“Hurt it?” Tommy repeats, and Wilbur’s heart is suddenly in his throat, with no reason as to why. “It’s a fucking egg.”

Bad goes very still. Very still, and very quiet. Antfrost’s eyes gleam, and his ears twitch.

“It’s a very good Egg,” Bad says. “Maybe you should listen to what it has to say. I bet it has something to offer you.”

That doesn’t—that doesn’t make any sense. Bad isn’t making any sense, and it’s a kind of nonsense that is unnerving, made worse by his apparent sincerity. Wilbur tries to reach out, tries to get Tommy’s attention, tries to get him close, but his arms won’t move. All of his limbs feel thick, heavy, and his head is spinning, airy and light and disconnected, and Bad and Ant are intimidating figures, suddenly, figures that stand between them and the exit. Wilbur thinks that perhaps, he should draw his sword. He doesn’t like the way that Bad is talking, doesn’t like the way that Ant is staring.

Instead, he turns his head to look at the Egg.

Tommy barks a laugh, loud and incredulous, and it’s like someone has driven a pickaxe through Wilbur’s skull. He moans faintly, but no one seems to notice. The room is swimming.

“Have you gone nutters?” Tommy asks. “It’s a fucking Egg. I don’t see a mouth on it anywhere. In fact, if it has a mouth, I don’t want to know about it, because that is fucking disgusting—”

“Actually,” Tubbo says quietly, “I think I can hear it.”

Tommy stops.

“You what?”

“You do?” Bad asks. He takes a step forward. Wilbur wants to take a step back. He doesn’t move. He’s looking at the Egg, and he can’t tear his gaze away, despite what’s happening in the corner of his eye, because there’s something just on the edge of his perception that he can’t—

“What is it saying to you?” Bad continues.

“It’s saying—” Tubbo’s face scrunches up. “Actually, I really don’t think I like this. I think we should go. What I can make out isn’t very polite.” His voice wavers, wobbles, like a spinning top running out of momentum.

“Really,” Bad says. His voice has gone flat. “I think you should stay and listen some more. It might grow on you.”

“Um, no,” Tommy says, “no, I think that’s a bad idea, actually. I don’t want to—is this some kind of cult? Are you a cult, BadBoyHalo? Is this Egg your cult leader? I think we should not listen to the Egg cult. This is weird. This is fucking weird. Tubbo, do you want to go? Let’s go.”

Tommy makes a motion. Wilbur can’t tell what. He’s looking at the Egg, and his vision is blurry. But he can see the way that Bad steps forward again, the way that Ant steps to the other side. Their netherite armor gleams. The message is clear: if they want to leave, they go through them, and Wilbur can barely think past the way his head is pounding, but this was a bad idea. This was so clearly a bad idea.

Was this Dream’s plan all along? Get them down here, get them into—whatever situation this is?

“Hold on just a minute,” Bad says. “I don’t think you’ve given the Egg a fair chance. The Egg wants what’s best for everyone, and that means you guys, too. How about you, Wilbur, do you like the Egg?”

He opens his mouth. No sound comes out. The room is swaying. The Egg is right there. He could touch it.

(static static static and beneath it there is)

Tommy is at his elbow, gripping his sleeve. “C’mon, big man, you feeling alright? You’re looking awfully pale.” A moment, and then, “Wilbur? Wilbur? Tubbo, something’s wrong with him. Come on, Wilbur, let’s go.”

“Do you hear the Egg, Wilbur?” Bad asks, soft and steady, and his voice slices through the fog.

Because he—

He—

(glowing and red and creeping and comforting and sickly and familiar)

He hears it.

A whisper, trailing just on the borderline of audibility. A whisper, rasping and knife-edged, and it feels like a hand, like a hand is reaching into his brain, touching his mind, dragging its fingertips on his thoughts, and he is shaking, and he can’t stop. It is a whisper, and he doesn’t understand the words, but their meaning filters through to him all the same.

It whispers to him of fire. He can hear it crackling. He can hear it burning. He can feel it on his flesh, eating him, eating up his skin and his sinews and his bones until he is ash, ash mingling with the ash of his city. He is on fire and the fire hurts and it is a beautiful pain, a pain to revel in, a pain that he has chosen, a pain that has him grinning even as his lips burn away and bare his teeth, bare his skull, a permanent smile, a smile that means he’s won. His fingers are clenched around the match, his fingers are caressing the button, his fingers are grasping the hilt of the sword as he forces Phil’s arm to drive it forward. But it doesn’t matter, because he is the fire and he is the ash, and he is eaten away and he eats everything else, a serpent consuming his own tail and screaming and laughing and choking all the while.

It whispers to him of fire. _You could burn the world_ , it says, _and dance in the ruins, dance on the flickering spark-soaked wind, and it will be of you, their destruction, because if you cannot have it then no one deserves it so why not grant them the wreckage their betrayals have wrought?_

His blood sings with it, with the thrill of it, with the desperate, ugly longing for it, the beast that lives under his skin rising to the surface, and unlike the kraken it breathes and it lives and it howls.

“Wilbur?”

He comes back to himself, a bit, and finds that he is smiling in truth, his lips pulled back, his teeth on display.

“Wilbur?” Tommy says again. “Wilbur, we need to go.”

Tommy doesn’t understand. Tommy doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear the voice, doesn’t hear its promises, its wonderful, wonderful promises. But that’s alright. He will, in time, and until then, Wilbur can understand for the both of them.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he tells him. “You’ll see. Can’t you hear it, Tommy? The world is on fire!”

He laughs, giddy. The room is spinning, and he with it, and his head throbs in time with his heart.

It whispers to him of a song.

A song, rife with drumbeats, thudding like the steps of a hundred armies, a million soldiers fighting and dying on the field. He was one of them, once, was Ares and led them all to blood. Blood, red and flowing, and what a lovely color it is. The blood is in the song, too, a _plink plink plink_ of high staccato notes, a thrumming bass line that goes down in steps, a celebration

( _no no no it’s a ground bass it’s a lament it’s a lament_ )

for the life spilling on the ground, for the life that is sacrificed, for the life that is fed to the cause, to the symphony, to the symphony! It understands his symphony, can sing in harmony with it! He’s gone so very long playing by himself, and yet here is something that knows the tune.

“No,” Tommy says, his voice shaking like a leaf on the breeze, “no, no, Wilbur, Wilbur, you’ve got to stop it, you’re scaring me, Wilbur, please—”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he replies, because he must make it clear, must make Tommy understand. “The symphony’s still there, Tommy, can’t you _hear_ it? It’s kept on without me, but I’m here now. I can continue it how I want.” He widens his smile. “I can leave it how I want. I can leave it unfinished again. I can make sure that no one finishes it.”

Tubbo makes a noise, like a small scream. Tommy is silent.

“The Egg can do it, Tommy,” he says. “The Egg can do it. All you have to do is listen. Please, Tommy, for me, can’t you hear it?”

Finally, finally, he wrenches his gaze away from the Egg. Bad and Ant have moved closer, Tommy and Tubbo farther away. Tommy’s eyes are wide, and blue, and terrified.

( _blue_ )

“No,” Tommy answers. “No, Wilbur, I can’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“We can fix that,” Bad offers, and Wilbur turns his smile on him. “All you have to do is stay down here for a little while. How does that sound?”

“It sounds bad! It sounds very, very bad!” Tommy erupts. “We’re not fucking staying down here, not when you’ve made Wilbur go all—” He gestures, and Wilbur doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say. He feels fine, feels real, feels _exultant_ , and he’d thought such emotions lost to him, so shouldn’t Tommy be happy for him? “We’re leaving, and if you try to stop us, then I’ll—fuck, I’ll stab the fucking thing and crack it open, and you can be all weird and cultish over the yolk.” As he says it, he pulls out a sword of his own, netherite and shining with enchantments, waving it wildly in the Egg’s direction.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Tommy,” Bad says, and then looks to Ant. “We’ll remove the obstacle. Tubbo and Wilbur can stay here.”

That sounds like a good idea. He’ll stay here, and the Egg will give him everything it promised in exchange for his devotion. And Tubbo will learn, in time, to love it. It is unfortunate, about Tommy, but those who threaten the Egg must either be brought around or they must be disposed of,

( _wait_ )

and Tommy is never inclined to listen after he’s gotten an idea in his head. He’s terribly stubborn like that. So if he’s decided to oppose the Egg, there’s only one thing left to do.

Wilbur draws his sword, and in unison with Bad and Ant, steps toward Tommy. Tubbo shouts a denial, fumbling for his own weapon, but Tommy just stands there, staring at him, a look on his face that

( _is horror and betrayal and you promised to protect him promised you wouldn’t hurt him anymore so what are you doing_ )

does something strange to his stomach, and—

The Egg is calling for his death, calling for his blood. But this—

This is Tommy. His little brother. He’s striding toward his little brother with his sword in his hand, and this isn’t—

The Egg whispers. Wilbur hears it. And it

( _is going to hurt Tommy_ )

is going to hurt Tommy. He sees it in his mind: Tommy’s limbs sprawled on the ground, Tommy’s eyes gazing up sightlessly, Tommy’s shirt wet with blood, Tommy dead and Tommy gone, and a wave of revulsion washes over him. Tubbo is moving forward, is moving to protect, but Ant engages him, and Bad is too close to Tommy, and Bad’s sword is raised, is poised to strike, and Tommy reacts too late and he’s not going to get his own sword up in time and the Egg is so loud and demanding and Wilbur can _hear_ it but he doesn’t want—

He catches Bad’s blade on his own. Interposes himself between Bad and Tommy.

“Get the fuck away from him,” he growls.

Bad’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you want to protect the Egg?” he asks, and Wilbur reels, because a large part of him wants to say _yes_ , wants to say that he will give the Egg anything and everything it wants. But the problem is that there is another part of him, now, a part that puts Tommy’s safety above all else, and that part of him is trembling and shaking and terrified, and the Egg doesn’t feel like a soothing whisper but instead like a snarl, and there are still fingers in his brain but he can recognize them for what they are, for what they’re doing, can recognize that they’re fucking with his thoughts, yanking them around like a marionette on a string, and—

“Get out of my _head_ ,” he cries out, and goes on the offensive, and Bad must be surprised, because he allows himself to be driven back. The Egg screams, and he screams, too, because it’s loud and his head hurts so bad and part of him wants desperately to follow its commands and he feels as though he’s being ripped in half.

(it’s in his head _it’s in his head_ it’s a violation it’s scraping off his skin hollowing him out and putting itself inside and he doesn’t want it doesn’t want it he wants it out wants it out out _out_ )

There is a clang, a clatter of armor, and Wilbur chances a glance back to see that Tubbo’s gotten one up on Ant, somehow, and he’s grabbed Tommy’s hand and then Tommy’s grabbing his, and they’re all running. And Bad lets them go, sprints over to Ant instead, and they’re going to get out, they’re going to _get out_ —

The Egg whispers to him of rest.

(it’s in his head and it won’t leave and it’s like worms writhing under his skin but)

He digs his heels into the floor and turns back. Tommy is shouting something and Tubbo is shouting something and they’re both pulling on his hands, but he won’t let himself budge.

The Egg whispers to him of rest, tells him, _If you will not take the fire, then why not take the dark, they will be safe and unharmed without you there to burn them and you can find your peace again, that comforting nothingness that allowed you to drift, and_

( _yes_ )

yes, he wants that, wants that so badly, because he was dragged back to life, dragged back into the world that cut him down to the quick, that formed all his sharp edges, and for Tommy’s sake, he can pretend, but he doesn’t want to be here. And the red of the Egg is comforting again, its glow soothing and warm, and _All you have to do is give in,_ it says to him, _all you have to do is let go and the peace is yours and who could blame you for taking it back when it was wrongfully wrested away from you?_

“Come _on_ , Wilbur!” Tommy is shouting.

“It’s offering me rest, Tommy,” he says, and his voice is agonized. “It’s offering—I want to rest, Tommy.”

“Wha—no!” Tommy says, and from the shock in his voice, the horror, Wilbur knows that he understands exactly what he means. “No rest! You—you fucking promised, Wilbur, you told me that you were glad to be here!”

(it’s in his head and it’s using his mouth but it’s only saying what he’s been hiding, has brought these thoughts to the surface, to the light)

“I lied,” he says. “Tommy, I want to rest. Please, let me go.”

(his father stands in front of him, his sword in his hand, and his eyes are bewildered and hurt and confused and terrified, and he knows that with the way he is, it will only take a push for him to get what he wants, only a push to provoke his father into a reaction, and he is so very selfish but he is far past caring, because the symphony is unfinished and he is ready to go he is ready to go)

He looks at Tommy. Tommy is crying.

“Fuck you,” Tommy snarls. “Fuck you, we’re leaving, we’re leaving right fucking now, Tubbo, help me—”

And they are pulling him back, pulling him back and away, but he is struggling, fighting them, because

( _please let me go please let me go_ )

the red is so warm and so soothing and as long as it’s not asking him to hurt Tommy, it’s alright, really, and he wants this, he does, and all of his earlier thoughts about fingers and puppets have dissipated and he _wants_ this, he’s sure that he does, and Tommy and Tubbo aren’t letting him, they aren’t letting him go. And Ant is on his feet again, and he and Bad are advancing, and if he can just get to them, they will help him, they will understand—

And then everything gets very confusing. Because there is another voice, suddenly, one he doesn’t recognize. More sounds of fighting, and he doesn’t know who is fighting who, because the world is fading away around him, and his vision is just red. And then he’s being manhandled, and he wants to keep struggling, but his limbs aren’t responding, and someone is carrying him up a ladder, and then he’s being set on the grass, and the nausea hits him hard and quick, and he’s retching, bile coming up, and he’s choking on it and he can’t get any air—

And there are flashes. More nausea. His head pounding, like someone’s tried to make a jigsaw puzzle out of his skull. Water, cool and refreshing, and the red subsides, but he hurts, hurts so very much.

Tommy’s voice, yelling. A glimpse of Tommy’s face. And then, Wilbur is out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, sprinkling in a Tennyson reference: I think I will make it obvious that I am an English major
> 
> No but really, I hope y'all liked this one, I wasn't super sure of how it came out. If you enjoyed, feel free to leave kudos or drop a comment, because the feedback I get is absolutely what gives me motivation to keep going! Comments are my lifeblood!
> 
> Also, [here is my tumblr](https://onecanonlife.tumblr.com/) if you'd ever like to stop by!
> 
> Next up, Chapter Eight: In which Wilbur has a couple of very tough conversations, and he and Schlatt discover something... interesting.


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